


Merely Players

by Maejones



Series: Merely Players and So On [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, BAMF Molly, Collusion, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Conspiracy, F/M, Gen, Government Agencies, Gun Violence, Jealous Sherlock, Medical, Misdirection, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mystery, Plot Twists, Possessive Sherlock, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03, References to Illness, Romance, Sexual Content, Sherlock's Violin, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, Swearing, Threats of Violence, Villains, Violence, attempts at Spanish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 79,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maejones/pseuds/Maejones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Molly, I am desperate for you."</p><p>Tantalizing words, but not spoken in the way she'd always imagined. Sherlock needs a fake girlfriend for a case but almost as soon as Molly gets involved, she's drawn into a very dangerous game. Someone's trying to kill her, a rival wants what's "hers", Mary finds herself threatened . . . the list goes on. Can Molly do anything to help or is she just a spectator in this theater?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The stage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WayTooEasilyObssessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayTooEasilyObssessed/gifts), [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/gifts), [Icecat62](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icecat62/gifts), [Nydamascus97](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nydamascus97/gifts), [incredibad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/incredibad/gifts), [applejacks0808](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applejacks0808/gifts).



> So, this is a completely separate fic because my favorite part of a smutty tale is the buildup. But check out "Those Left Behind" if you haven't already to get a taste of my style. I promise, there's more to that story as well but the muse takes me where it will and I have to sort out how to continue that story and do it justice. For now, enjoy something (slightly) different!
> 
> FYI: My version of Sherlock always borders on dark and he's my Molly's greatest weakness of course. However, don't expect her to just take anything from him. She's got a backbone! And I am explicit in all things sexual. Be warned, but also, be thrilled. It's collar-tugging good.
> 
> I do not own anything. I borrow from the show like it's my big sister's closet except my own OCS.

     Molly jumped as the doors to the lab swung open. She was particularly on edge because the day before she had got the fright of her life when Moriarty’s cackling visage was broadcast all over the tele. She clicked her teeth together and watched as Sherlock strode in with an air of impatience. His Belstaff flapped in his wake. John followed behind him and skipped every second step as he tried to keep up. She took a deep breath as relief washed through her. Still, it was several moments before her drumming heart slowed to a steady pace. Maybe that was due to the fact that Sherlock looked more abominably handsome than usual in a charcoal shirt and grey and black plaid scarf.

     Oh what she could do with that scarf . . .

     “A-afternoon, Sherlock. Hi, John,” she said with a nod.

     “Hello, Molly,” John smiled.

     Sherlock paused and appraised her.

     His head tilted to one side. “What’s wrong with you? You look as if you’ve aged two years overnight.”

     Molly pressed her lips together, brushed a hair from her face and stuck her hands in the pockets of her lab coat as she glowered at his perfection. It wasn’t fair that he had such touchable ebony curls and arresting green eyes. 

     “I’m tired, that’s all,” she said softly. “I was up all night worrying about things.”

      He laughed in his signature high pitched, incredulous manner. “What do _you_ possibly have to worry about? You work in a unionized position at a government institution at a rate of pay most women your age can only hope to make . . .”

    Her brows drew together.

    She felt a frown pinch her entire face. “Moriarty was all over the television yesterday! Um, you know, the psychopath I dated who had a kill-Sherlock fetish?”

     He rolled his eyes. “Oh, that. Never mind. It’s nothing. Besides, I wouldn’t stay up all night worrying on my account. You see, I am perfectly fine. Also, I can take care of myself.”

     Only Sherlock could make her radically shift gears from wanting to engage in unmentionable, dirty acts to having an insatiable urge to belt him. Of course he would think it was all about him. John looked as if he was on the verge of hysterics as he shook his head.

     “I don’t think that was what she meant, Sherlock.”

    Sherlock sputtered a sigh from his lips and looked up to the ceiling. “This conversation is so tedious.”

     Molly bit her lip and spun away from them. Unexpectedly, her throat constricted and her eyes burned. Would it kill him to worry about her a little bit? After all, if Moriarty was alive she could potentially be one of his targets. She wasn’t sure what hurt more, Sherlock’s complete disregard for her feelings or the fact he still thought her so inconsequential that Moriarty would have no cause to do her harm.

     His deep voice reverberated behind her. “Molly?”

    She plastered a smile on her face and whirled back to face the two men.

    “Ack!”

     Sherlock was almost on top of her with eyes so intensely focused, she could see her reflection in them.

     “Um, w-what brings you here today then?” She asked.

     God, she hated the feebleness of her voice. His eyes flicked back and forth over her face. Then they narrowed and softened. She clenched her teeth. No, no, no! Not this again! She was powerless against his wicked sex appeal. A knowing smile spread across his face.

      “Molly, I am desperate for you,” he murmured.

     Air prickled her lungs as she forgot to breathe. That was so totally not what she thought he was going to say.

     “W-what?” Both she and John asked in unison.

     He tugged at his scarf and loosened it as he continued to stare down at her. Her stomach flip-flopped and she felt tingles all the way down to her toes. His gaze followed as she licked her lips nervously. Something darkened his features for a fraction of a second and then he either flinched or blinked, she wasn’t sure which.

     He snapped his head back. “I need you to move in with me.”

     “M-move in? You mean, to Baker Street?” Her eyes flew to John with a question momentarily.

     John turned his palms to the ceiling and shrugged. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”

     Sherlock nodded once slowly. “I have need of a girlfriend.”

     Molly lifted her hand to her temple and hen scratched at her brow nervously. “Um, well, I’m confused.”

     John popped up beside Sherlock. “Yes, so am I. What’s this about?”

     Sherlock glanced quickly between the two of them. Molly was certain she appeared as utterly confounded as John by the numb feeling in her face. Sherlock's eyes and then his lips twitched. He gave his head a half-shake and then groaned.

     “Oh, you’re both ridiculous. I don’t want a _real_ girlfriend. I have need of another faux relationship and would rather not employ Janine in that position again,” Sherlock shuddered, smoothed his hands over his jacket and stretched his neck. “God, it was like fighting off an octopus sometimes. No, I need someone who understands I have zero interest in a relationship with them. That makes you the ideal candidate, Molly.”

     He smiled and wagged his brows when she didn’t immediately respond. “So? What do you say?”

     Molly’s fingers jittered in her pocket. Her face had gone from numb to ice cold. John’s grin had completely disappeared and he winced. She closed the gap between her and Sherlock and stepped just close enough that he had to sway back. Normally, she would have fallen apart and tripped over her tongue responding to his tripe but his cluelessness made her want to spit. It was time to turn the tables on him.

     “You’re desperate for me?” She asked huskily.

     His lips parted slightly and his breath hitched. He seemed at a loss for a moment.

     He blinked a couple times. “Ahm, yeees?”

     Molly huffed out through her nose. She tapped him on the chest. Anger welled up in her and she felt her lips tremble.

     “And I’m your ideal, am I, Sherlock Holmes?”

     His eyes flitted to her lips. He bobbed his head.

     “Then how about you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

     “Yes?” He prompted with a flick of his tongue over his teeth.

     “…FUCK OFF?”

     His head recoiled and his eyes went round as saucers. “Molly Hooper!”

     “Aah, ha, ha, ha! Oh, my God, that was good!” John doubled over laughing.

   Molly glared at Sherlock one last time then shoved him, lifted her chin and walked straight towards the lab door. She flexed her hands. She could still feel his muscular chest beneath her fingers.

     “Where are you going?” Sherlock called after her sharply.

     She didn’t turn around. She did not want him to see the tears welling up in her eyes.

    “Away!” She replied as she yanked open the door. “Try not to make a mess.”

                      *   *   *

     “Hmm, that went well,” John said with a chuckle.

     “Shut up, John,” he pinched his nose.

     “What was that all about? Why do you need another girlfriend? Why Molly?”

     Sherlock looked towards the door Molly just exited through. “I have need of her as a distraction and she must be believable. No one else will do, John.  No one else is as . . . authentic.”

     John rubbed his hands through his hair. “Yes, but this is Molly, you insensitive git. She has feelings, you know.”

     Sherlock fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. “Yes, I am counting on them.”

    John pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Dick.”

     Sherlock frowned. “Excuse me?”

     “You’re a dick. If I had known what you were coming down here for, I never would have tagged along. My wife is a zillion months pregnant. I have better things to do than watch you toy with the emotions of one of the nicest people on the planet.”

     Sherlock huffed and stroked his cheek absentmindedly. “Nicest? Have you ever been on the receiving end of her temper?”

      “Yes, well, righteous slaps always sting the most. Anyways, I’m going home. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go beg her forgiveness and forget whatever shenanigans you’re plotting.”

     “Yes, well, do go on and tend to the missus. I’ll see to saving the world and all that pesky nonsense.”

     John let out a noisy breath. “Christ, goodbye then, Sherlock. I’ll give you ring tomorrow.”

     “Don’t bother, I won’t answer. Try the day after.”

     “Yup, later.”

     “Laters!”

                          *   *   *

     Molly slipped her phone from her pocket and checked the time. She’d left the lab over an hour ago. It should be all clear. 

    _"Nope,"_ she thought as she tip-toed into the lab.  _"He didn't get the last word."_ _  
_

     She felt her heart rate quicken as her eyes scanned Sherlock's lean form. He sat with his back to her at the bench in the middle of the room pouring something from one beaker to another. He’d taken off his jacket. His close fitting shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and trim torso. She chewed her lip. His fingers were so long and elegant. There was such fluidity and purpose in the way he moved. How could such exquisite human design be so maddeningly flawed? 

     “I don’t have time for this,” he mumbled, not looking up.

     She sighed and made a flourish with her hand. “Yet, here you are.”

     He put the beakers down, stood up from the bench and turned in her direction. She could see every ripple of movement under the fine fabric of his shirt. Her fingers itched to divest him of the garment and run her hands all over, everywhere . . . she shook her head. She was so depraved. The last time she’d had sex was with Tom and it hadn't been fun. That sad episode had heralded the end because she’d realized then she’d rather get off to daydreams of Sherlock Holmes than a real, live man in her bed.

     “John thinks I should beg your forgiveness,” Sherlock drawled.

     Molly raised a brow. “O-oh? And y-you don’t?”

     She cursed inwardly. Damn stutter!

     He poked his lips out. “Erm, no. I wouldn’t want to insult your intelligence.”

     She smiled and looked down for a tick. “Well, that would be a f-first.”

     He lazily strolled around the lab bench towards her with eyes focused like lasers on her face. She felt her skin flush and heat creep up her neck.

     “You didn’t sleep last night. You were afraid,” he observed. “Come stay with me and rest easier. All I ask is for a little . . . theatre.”

     Molly clenched her hands at her sides. He made it sound so easy, logical even. Stay with Sherlock. Pretend to be his girlfriend. A very naughty little voice in the back of her head started giggling out of control.

   _“Yeees,”_ it goaded. _“Doooo iiiit!”_

    She sucked in a halting breath. This was an incredibly bad idea.

    “Sherlock . . .”

     He leaned against the bench. His fingers drummed its surface. She felt like a fish nibbling on a worm. Then, the line jerked and she was caught.

     “Come on now, Molly. Don’t act like you don’t want to.”


	2. The script

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst and awkwardness and well, Sherlock in the buff (sort of ). Had to slip it in as a tease.

“Stop fidgeting.”

     Molly bumped Sherlock as his arm draped heavily across her shoulders. Toby yowled in his carrier next to her feet. The sound of his impatience echoed in the foyer of 221 Baker street.

     “Let go of me,” she whispered.

      She looked up at her tormenter intending to scald him with an indignant glare but her words died on her lips. He blinked slowly and gazed down at her with eyes of pale jade. His nostrils flared as his arm slid from her shoulders down her back and clutched her hip before pulling her firmly against him.

     Oh, the vapors! She felt her tummy twist.

     “Behave,” he commanded in a low tone. “Mr. Hudson needs to believe this is legitimate.”

     Molly clamped her mouth shut. She didn’t like telling fibs to someone as sweet as Sherlock’s landlady.

     “I still don’t see why it’s necessary to lie to her,” she muttered between her lips.

     The door swung open to Mrs. Hudson’s flat and she stepped out. She peered back and forth between the two of them.

     “Alright then, here’s your keys, Molly.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head and looked up with a question in her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever completely understand. I didn’t think someone like you could change his preferences, Sherlock.”

    Sherlock exhaled noisily.  “What do you mean, _‘someone like you’_?”

     Mrs. Hudson shrugged, tucked in her lips and lifted her brows. “Um, yes, well . . .”

     Molly curbed a grin but her body shook with a silent laugh. Sherlock’s hand moved up her waist to her ribs just beneath her breast. She caught her lip between her teeth as he pressed his fingers one by one into her side. His hand was solid, unyielding and its heat seeped through her shirt like one of those towels handed out in first class.

     Unexpectedly, he leaned down and brushed his lips on the top of her head. “All set, _Darling_?”

     Molly’s toes danced in her shoes. The top of her head felt as if it had been scorched by his breath.

     “Erm, yes, _Hunny-Bunny_.”

     She saw just the slightest flicker of amusement cross his features. His eyes crinkled at the corners and then slid away.

     Mrs. Hudson giggled. “Oh, I must say, you two make such a better couple than you and John, Sherlock. I think Molly quite compliments you, to be honest.”

     “Mrs. Hudson, I don’t know why you think John and I . . .”

     The sound of a phone jangling in her flat caught her attention. “Ooh, I ought to get that. You go on and get yourself settled, Molly. I’ll talk to you later.”

     After Mrs. Hudson left, Sherlock’s hand fell away. The sleeve of his trench brushed her bum as he reached down to pick up her suitcase. God, she’d had more physical contact with him in the past twenty four hours than she’d had in all the previous years she’d known him. It was beyond surreal and messing with her head, big time. Why had she agreed to this again?

     She followed Sherlock up the stairs with Toby to his flat where he put down her case, whipped off his Belstaff and hung it up. She tilted her head sideways and admired his perfectly sculpted arse.

     Oh, yes, there it was. She was a complete slave to her hormones.

     She shook her head as she looked around his flat. She’d been there countless times but the walls leaned like they were closing in and Sherlock seemed to enlarge right before her eyes. She was insane, absolutely bat-shite crazy to have agreed to this. No good could come of pretending to be his girlfriend, not when it was secretly (well, maybe not-so-secretly) her most desperate desire. Her heart thumped in her chest.

     “Your ruminations are giving me a headache,” he bit out. “Stop thinking so hard, it’s causing you to pant.”

     Her face flamed.

     “I’m not p-panting,” she said breathlessly.

     _“Damn,”_ she thought. _“I am.”_

     Sherlock moved towards her and then reached down and took the carrier containing Toby from her grasp. He hiked a brow and huffed.

     “What would be a better description? Wheezing? Can I expect you to be equally as deafening at night? I do occasionally like to sleep.”

     Molly shrugged out of her jacket and hung it beside Sherlock’s trench. Again, so weird to be doing that. She gritted her teeth.

    “I doubt I will breathe heavily enough to wake you from the upper floor,” she said as she turned back to him.

     Sherlock lifted his chin. “What gave you the idea you are staying there?”

    Molly was mid step when he said that and nearly stumbled into his arms as she tripped over her feet. His hand shot out and grabbed her elbow. She gaped at him.

     “E-excuse me?”

     Sherlock steadied her on her feet. “Molly, I said I needed a girlfriend. I thought you understood what that meant.”

     “B-b-but . . .”

    He exhaled loudly. “Where would you sleep if you were my girlfriend?”

     She had to look like a bit of a bleached linen just then. Her eyes felt as if they were going to fall from her sockets.

     “In your b-bed.”

     He smiled, pointed and then snapped his fingers. “Right then, glad we got that sorted.”

     Sherlock picked up her suitcase with his free hand and walked directly to the room at the end of the hall. _His room._ Her knees felt weak as she watched him disappear with her cat and her things. He re-emerged a minute later. Toby bounded after him with a keening mewl.

      Sherlock strode towards where she still stood frozen in shock. He undid a button at his throat then flicked his cuffs open and pushed up his sleeves casually as if oblivious (or willfully ignorant) to her bewilderment.

     “Fancy some take away?”

                *   *   *

     Molly stared up at the dark ceiling of Sherlock’s bedroom and tried not to look at him as he divested himself of his shirt. All throughout dinner she had tried to wheedle out of him why she was required to sleep in his bed but he managed to wriggle out of an explanation every time.

    Curses, she felt protected though and the feeling was addictive. She could not imagine anyone or anything getting past Sherlock. Even though she couldn’t shake the awkwardness of playing house with him, she was glad she wasn’t at home by herself agonizing over the spectre of Moriarty’s return.

     Molly swallowed as the bed next to her dipped. Her pulse sputtered and took off. She stole a glance at him. Alright, that was it. Absolutely it. She jumped out of bed.

     “Sherlock Holmes, I will not put up with one more minute of this. Wh-why are you n-naked?”

     He rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow.

     He made a face and looked down. “What? This is how I sleep.”

     She pressed her lips together for a moment. Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head until her brain felt like it was bashing against the insides of her skull.

     “This is ridiculous. I-if you were anyone . . . anyone else, Sherlock Holmes, I would think you’re trying to make a move on me. You need to explain what’s going on or I’m leaving.”

     Sherlock sighed. “Molly, I assure you, I am not going to put any _‘moves’_ on you.”

     He sat up. The bed linens slipped to his waist. She sucked in a breath as she appraised his lean, muscular torso. God, it wasn’t right for anyone to be that fit.

     He reached up and raked his hands through his hair. The coverings pulled and strained as he moved. She involuntarily glanced to his lap.

      _“Eep!”_ Her inner voice squeaked.

    “Truth is,” Sherlock muttered. “I am being watched, and I do not know how closely. I want to tell you more, I do, but I dare not. I know this is difficult but I need you to trust me.”

     His lips twitched. His cheek contracted in a flutter of movement before his gaze met hers square on.

     “Please, trust me, Molly, as I have always trusted you with everything including my life. I swear that I would not ask this of you if I had any other alternative. I need you.”

     Her stance ease. Oh, the softness of his expression. His wide, liquid eyes melted her resolve. She felt herself drawn in as if he were a blinding street lamp, and she a wayward moth. She nodded after a few seconds.

     “Alright Sherlock. You win. You freakin’ win with that. Just, please, if you can . . . don’t hurt me.”


	3. The conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two can play at this game. *Molly rubs her hands together*
> 
> Also, after I did Mary so terribly wrong in my last work, I thought I would make her more prominent here to atone for my sins.

 

     Molly felt like a time-lapse camera taking pictures. Every time she opened her eyes, the light had changed and right then, dawn crept across the ceiling. She had not slept a wink the entire night and would swear if asked she'd counted approximately 4800 breaths from Sherlock over the course of the night. Yet still, somehow he managed to sneak out of the bed undetected.

     She looked over to the void he had left and past it to the alarm clock which displayed the time at 7 am. In a way, she was relieved she did not have to look him in the eyes straight away. There was something too intimate about those first few moments of consciousness in the morning. Although, she would love to study him in his sleep if she was ever given the chance. She sighed and lumbered out of bed. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand.

     "Ugh," she mumbled.

     She had sweat buckets. Lying next to Sherlock was like sharing the bed with a 200 watt light bulb. Of course, it didn't help in her nervousness that she'd worn a long sleeved tee and flannel pajama bottoms as well as socks. She trudged towards the bathroom. Toby bounded up to her in the hall and greeted her with a head bump and a cry for attention. She leaned down and scooped him up.

     "Morning, Mr. Toby, how's my guy?"

     "Mrrrlll, ruuurrr."

    "Oh, you like this place, do you? Mm, well, don't get too attached."

    Besides Toby's purring, the flat was dead silent. She surmised Sherlock had probably gone off somewhere. She set about her morning routine, brushed the funk from her teeth, hopped in the shower and ran it colder than usual. She was still so hot, literally hot, and bothered by Sherlock's behavior the previous night. She needed to change something because otherwise this was going to prove unbearable. She couldn't have another night like the last night. She'd start by going out and buying something cooler in which to sleep.

     Then a thought struck her and she felt the biggest smile spread across her face. She rubbed her hands together under the streaming water. She felt positively wicked.

     Sherlock Holmes wanted a girlfriend, did he? Well, he was going to get one.

          *   *   *

     "I would say you look well, Mary, but I would be lying."

     Mary glowered at Sherlock. "I would tell you to shut it, Sherlock, but that would defeat the purpose of your visit."

     Sherlock whipped off hit coat and settled into the chair opposite Mary. "Let's call it even then, shall we?"

     Mary nodded and hauled her feet up one by one onto the ottoman. Her legs and feet were incredibly swollen from the late stages of pregnancy. She felt as if every one of her toes were going to pop off. 

     "How are you enjoying pregnancy?" Sherlock asked.

     She raised a brow. "Seriously, you really want to know?"

     He pressed his fingers into a triangle and propped his chin up. "It is a curious state."

     Mary grunted. "It's godawful. Who are these women who glow, anyways? I want to punch them in the face. I hate every minute of this. I'm fat, I'm swollen, I have to wee every half hour, every disc in my back feels as if it's being compressed and the baby has dropped down and is so heavy now I feel like I'm trying to hold a bowling ball in with my cooch."

     Sherlock's face went pale and he cleared his throat. "Ahem, indeed . . ."

    "Ah, sorry, Sherlock, a lack of decorum seems to be another byproduct of this delightful state. I suppose I've gotten to the point where so many people have inspected my nether regions that I've lost all modesty."

     He pressed his lips together a moment. His eyes enlarged briefly and he sat back and crossed his legs.

     "Yes, well, let's change the subject, shall we?"

     Mary took a breath and then another. "I suppose you've figured out why I've asked you here."

     Sherlock dipped his head. "I have determined it is something to do with your past, otherwise John would be here but his absence means you don't want him to know. You have been sent something, a token that reminds you of someone or something but you are not entirely sure of its meaning or who sent it as they did it anonymously. You fear you've been discovered."

     Mary reached to the side of the couch and retrieved a small courier envelope. "I forget how good you are sometimes."

     His eyes hardened around the edges. "You shouldn't, I never fail to remember your capabilities. Nor underestimate them. For all your complaints, you've probably got this place booby trapped and have sorted out some method of killing an intruder that involves smothering them with your enlarged . . ."

     Mary smiled tightly and held up her hand. "I'd stop right there, Sherlock. Unless you want to test that theory out?"

     He clapped his mouth shut.

     She pulled a small velvet bag from the envelope, loosened the ties and turned it over in her hand. Three pearl-like gems dropped into her palm. She poked at them individually and then handed them one by one to Sherlock.

     "What meaning do these have for you?" He asked as he studied them.

     Each pearl was very different from the next. One was a tear drop shape in an iridescent, blue-green color that shimmered like petrol fanning out over water. Another was just a slightly irregular round shape and pink with faint white streaks that looked more like a shiny pebble than a true lustrous pearl. The third was a deep, reddish-purple oval with a crystalline structure that made it appear as if it were a bit of polished granite.

     "What do you know about these?" Sherlock asked. "They are not your typical pearls."

     She felt a pang of overwhelming sadness. She rubbed a tear from the corner of her eye.

     "M-my father was a jeweler. He specialized in rare gems. I have done a bit of sleuthing already. The blue one there is from an abalone, the pink a conch, and the mauve a scallop. I'd wager each of these are natural and while unusual, not necessarily priceless. Perhaps a few hundred to a thousand quid each."

     He juggled them in his hand absentmindedly. "Still, a rather generous gift from an anonymous source."

     Mary felt a frown pull at the corners of her lips. She wrung her hands. 

     "I do not consider them gifts. My father is dead and has been for some time. He died well before I ever became Mary Morstan."

     Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he thought about her revelations. "How did he die?"

     "He contracted yellow fever on a trip to Colombia for some emeralds when I was about 18. His death hit me hard. I was adrift for quite some time. That's how they ensnared me, Sherlock, and led me down the path towards hell and now I fear, someone wants to ensure I return to it. I cannot help thinking that this is a message." 

     He thumbed the pearls. "When did you receive these?"

     "Yesterday."

     Mary watched as Sherlock's features strained. She tensed as fear caused icy rivulets to trickle down her spine and her hands flew to her belly. Even at times she had faced death, nothing felt quite so terrifying as worrying about her baby and whether it would have a mother. She could wretch.

     "If it's not from my former associates, do you think this has anything to do with that Moriarty character? John tends to sound overly histrionic when he describes the man. Is he very dangerous, Sherlock?"

     He shifted in his seat. His eyes dropped back to the gems.

     "He's dead, Mary."

     She did not like the look on his face. Even he did not seem convinced by his words.

     "You don't appear so certain. Is he?"

     Sherlock's lips parted. His brow flinched.

     "I thought I was. Now, I-I do not know."

     

     

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The cast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1001 ways Molly Hooper can drive Sherlock Holmes crazy.

     "Excuse me, I hate to bother you, but can I have your opinion on something?"

     Molly glanced up to the melodic sound of a female's voice and saw a smartly dressed woman holding a dress in each hand. She smiled and nodded.

     "Um, sure."

     "Which color do you think would better suit me?"

     Molly glanced between the deep aubergine cocktail dress and more dramatic teal full length dress. She chewed her lip. She would never wear either dress as she was far too conservative but she gravitated towards the stunning teal number for some reason. The woman, with her perfectly coiffed dark hair and large blue-grey eyes would probably be a knockout in the dress. She was exceptionally attractive. Molly looked down at her own dowdy ensemble. She wore pleated brown trousers, a plain white tee shirt and forest green cardigan. She frowned. Sometimes she didn't even understand her wardrobe decisions. Why on earth would this woman ask her opinion?

     "Erm, I like the blue dress, actually. It's beautiful and your skin looks really nice next to it."

     The woman beamed. "Really, oh, that's what I was thinking but it's nice to have a second opinion. I've been trying to get the attention of a particular gent for some time and I'm hoping this might do."

     "I'm sure you'll have great success," Molly murmured. "I'm not really sure what I'm doing here, actually. I don't think it matters what I buy."

     The woman gave a little pout. "What, oh, I'm sure that can't be true. Not if you're shopping for, um, sleep wear."

     Molly's face went hot. She chewed her lip.

     "I thought I had an idea but now that I'm here, I am clueless. I want to make someone, ah, let's say uncomfortable but I don't want to look like I'm trying to hard or be too obvious about it. Oh, drat, I sound very silly, don't I?"

     The woman frowned and shook her head. "No, not at all. Hmm, maybe I can help."

     She turned and hung her two dresses up on a nearby rack. "See, I fancy myself a bit of an amateur expert in these kind of things. These items here on this display are lovely and something you can work up to but perhaps a little aggressive to start. I gather that's not your style?"

     Molly put her hand to her face as it warmed another degree. She'd been thumbing through risque negligees but losing confidence with every passing moment. She didn't want Sherlock to think she was trying to lure him in, she just wanted him to feel awkward.

    "No, I am not a lingerie type at all."

    "Well, that's perfectly fine. It doesn't have to be see-through and lacy to get a man going. Erm, it is a man, is it not?"

     Molly nodded. "Yes."

     The woman winked and smiled. "Just checking. You never know."

     Molly followed as the woman pulled a selection of garments from different racks. She handed them to Molly one by one.

     "You see," she explained, "the trick is to work your way up to the the more ambitious outfits. Start with this nightdress. It shows off your shoulders, a hint of breast but still falls to your knees. Then, the next time, maybe wear this little half-top with these slinky pajama bottoms. Your legs are covered but you have more cleavage and a little mid-riff showing. Then, hit him with these soft satin boy shorts and matching tank. Make sure you drop something in front of him when you wear these. He'll get an eye full."

     Molly fanned her face. She was on fire.

     "Oh, thank you so much. I'm Molly, by the way."

     The woman smiled brightly.

     "Irene."

             *   *   *

     "Good boy, Toby!"

     Molly held out another treat for her loyal little feline and scratched his head. Her head flew up as she heard a key turning the front door's lock. Hastily, she returned Sherlock's violin to its stand and glanced around. She was quite pleased with herself, actually, but it would not due to be standing about as if she were up to something. She dashed into the kitchen just as Sherlock entered his flat.

     "Molly!"

     Molly gingerly strolled out of the kitchen. She had practiced an innocent expression all day. She hoped it wasn't for naught.

     "Oh, hello, how was your day?"

     She didn't think a day would ever come when he didn't set her heart racing. He was so incredibly handsome even as he stood there holding his jacket in his hand with an irritated scowl.

     "I have no where to hang my coat."

     "Oh?"

     She glanced up to where she had hung several of her jackets and sweaters. She suppressed a smile.

     "Sorry, Sherlock. I've just been trying to make myself at home. I can move some of these."

     He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Don't bother."

     He slung his jacket over the back of the couch and slipped out of his shoes. "What have you been doing? Things appear different in here somehow and you're anxious."

     "I just made dinner. I hope you like it. It's ready if you're hungry."

     Molly watched as his eyes scanned her with a squint. His lips parted as if to speak and then he half turned his head.

     "I just need to use the facilities. Excuse me."

     Molly smiled at his back as he closed the bathroom door behind him. She hadn't left any underwear hanging about but she had placed her contraception in a conspicuous place next to the faucet. A few moments later the door swung open. She remained as stone faced as possible.

     "Good God, what is going on in there? It smells like a florist's shop."

     Molly raised her brows. She had to fight a giggle that welled up in her chest. She had bought a very pungent massage oil and dribbled it all over the back of the radiator in the loo. The effect of it on one's nostrils was like walking into a tropical hothouse in full bloom. 

     She shrugged. "Oh, it must be my body spray. Sorry, I just freshened up a bit before you came home."

     In a couple of strides, Sherlock in all his oppressive glory was nearly on top of her with a cloudy expression. She stood her ground even though she wanted to scamper away. His eyes narrowed as he moved closer and he reached for her hair. Unexpectedly, he leaned down and inhaled against the strands between his fingers. Molly felt a vibration in her fingers and toes. Dear Lord, if she just turned her face a bit . . . 

     "You missed then, because you don't smell nearly as repugnant," he mumbled in her ear.

     She swallowed. "I may have. I kind of close my eyes when I spray."

     He didn't immediately move away. He let the locks of her hair slip from his fingers.

     "Can your dinner keep?" He asked in a low tone.

     God, his voice did things to her. She felt tingles in her most intimate area. A wave of hormonal longing swept through her gut. She had visions of him hoisting her in his arms and carrying her off to his bedroom.

     "Wh-why?"

     "I want to take you . . . mm, out, that is." He pulled his head away and looked down at her through relaxed eyes. "What do you say?"

     She stared up at him like a goldfish. "M-me? Out? With you?"

     "Of course, Molly. We are dating, so to speak. I would appear to be a very indifferent boyfriend indeed if I never escorted you anywhere."

     She experienced a pang of disappointment. Her eyes dropped to the floor. Of course it would be for the benefit of the illusion he was trying to maintain. 

     "Right then, I'll go change."

     He smiled. "Yes, do try to appear as if you are making an effort."

     Molly felt a sudden onset of murderous rage. "How would you like me to dress, my liege?"

     He pointed to a bag by the door. "I took the liberty of purchasing appropriate attire for you."

     She stepped back from him with her fists in balls, grabbed the bag and turned on her heel. 

            *   *   *

     Twenty minutes later, Molly stepped into Sherlock's living room wearing what had to be a ridiculously expensive black suit. Strangely, it wasn't something that felt odd to wear. The black blazer and trousers were kind of professional but cut to not be entirely business-like. The silk shirt beneath the blazer whispered across her skin in a creamy white palette patterned with tiny, cheerful cherries. At a distance the pattern looked innocuous and fashionable and one couldn't tell at what they were looking. The thoughtfulness of his choice in that print had made her chest feel a bit tight. It was so her. She loved it.

     She lifted her eyes to his shyly. "Will I suffice?"

     He gazed at her from his chair. His fingers stilled on the arms and his eyes constricted. A shadow crossed his face. 

     "Yes."

     He pushed himself up from his chair. "I took the liberty of putting the food away. Are you ready to go?"

     "Mm, hmm."

     He donned his jacket as she grabbed her purse. Just as they were about to leave, one of his hands touched her lower back as he reached past her for the door. The casual contact made her jump. He made an exasperated sound at her back.

     "This won't do."

     Molly turned and faced him. A move she instantly regretted. She was boxed against the door by his large frame.

     "I don't understand," she whispered.

     He exhaled a breath noisily as he stared down at her with a slight frown. "You cannot flinch every time I touch you. A keen eye will know we are putting on a performance."

     "I'm sorry," she whispered and looked down.

     She felt him lift her chin with a digit. Fingers drifted down the side of her throat. Oh, Lord, she must be panting again.

     "We ought to practice some intimacy," he murmured. 

     Molly licked her lips. She knew what was coming even as she didn't fucking believe it. Sherlock's head descended and his lips pressed against hers, soft and pliable. She felt a bit weak and her hands sought his waist for support. He didn't do much, just touched his lips to hers but their moist warmth set off a fiery stream of sensation through every nerve in her body. His thumb feathered across the carotid artery at the side of her throat. His fingerprint ridges were marvelously abrasive against her delicate skin. She knew her blood had to be pulsing at an absolutely insane rate as all she could hear was the roar of it in her own ears. 

     She rationalized that she should just stand there and conduct herself as if this were some sort of experiment but that thought soon gave way to her rampant desire for more. Everything about him overwhelmed her senses. The feel of his muscular torso beneath her hands, the radiant heat of his flesh and the clean, and the crisp smell of his aftershave each made her drunk with need. With a breathy sigh, she moved her lips against his as if sipping from an intoxicating wine.

     Sherlock's body tensed. For a petrifying moment, she thought he was going to push her away but instead, he shifted forward and his mouth came down hard. Once, twice his lips fed from hers before he broke away and pulled back. He loomed with a scowl for a second with his breath rasping against her face before he stepped back.

     Molly felt bereft as he moved away. She dropped her hands to her sides. It was not supposed to have gone like this, she was supposed to get the upper hand on him. Yet once again, she found herself out of sorts. She flushed as they regarded each other. He'd just kissed her and then really kissed her and it had felt so genuine. 

     Then he had to go and open his damn mouth.

     "Impressive, Molly. I could almost believe you meant that."

     

     

     

     

     

     


	5. The antagonist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would a proper Sherlock romance be without a bit o' mystery and danger?

 

A dark sedan pulled up just as Molly and Sherlock stepped out of Baker Street. Two men exited the car like extras in a mafia film. Sherlock clutched her around the waist and stepped between her and the sedan with his back to the street as if acting as a shield.

     “I am sorry. I will have to give you a rain check on our date. Go back upstairs, please. Lock the doors and do not open them for anyone.”

     Molly frowned. “What’s going on?”

     His hands compressed on her arms. His eyes skittered back and forth quickly. They then flicked sideways as the door to the car swung open.

     “I do not have time . . .”

     “Sherlock Holmes?” A voice called.

     Sherlock tried to direct her back towards the flat. “Go, Molly.”

     Molly looked around his shoulder and saw one of the men flick his jacket open to reveal something holstered around his midsection. She felt a tremor of fear turn her stomach as the smaller of the two men, looking a lot like an overfed troll, grinned.

     “Ah, nah, your lass ain’t going anywhere. Our instructions were to fetch you and any companions. Come on then,” the man called again.

     Molly looked up at Sherlock with determination even as she felt a quiver in her gut. She raised a brow.

     “Sh-shall we?”

     “Molly,” he grumbled.

      She crossed her arms defiantly. “Y-you’re not going anywhere without me, Sherlock Holmes, not with that nervy look on your face.”

     Sherlock raked a hand through his hair. He adjusted his jacket and exhaled loudly.

      “When did you become so difficult?” He hissed, touching his hand to her abdomen as she attempted to move by him. “This is madness. I will not be able to protect you in the confines of that car.”

     Molly brushed his hand away and walked past him. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

     “Oy, well, there’s a sensible filly,” troll-face smiled.

     Of course, Molly was shaking as she approached the car and neared the man with his closely shorn hair wearing a black bomber jacket over black clothes. He held the door ajar and leered at her as she climbed into the back seat.

    “Mind your head, Sweetmeat.”

     Sherlock followed close behind and bumped her out of the middle seat to sit next to the far door. The driver scrambled back behind the wheel while the shorter man heaved into the passenger seat. He turned as the car’s doors locked and it lurched forward. He made a sour face and then waved his hand in his face with a flare of his nostrils.

     “Whoa, that’s quite the aftershave you got on there? Is that what lads want to smell like nowadays? A meadow?”

     Molly bit back a nervous laugh. If she weren’t so full of dread, she’d crack up. She had noticed earlier that Sherlock smelled a bit like the massage oil she'd disseminated in his bathroom. She hadn’t expected the scent to cling so readily to him though.

     “And I’m not going to get any trouble from you two, eh?” He asked as he looked at Sherlock with one narrowed and one wide-open eye. “’Cause I got permission from above to deal wit’ you in any way I see fit.”

     Molly clutched for Sherlock’s hand. He intertwined his fingers with hers and squeezed them.

     “I promise not to misbehave provided you ensure no harm will come to my date.”

     The man twitched his brows a couple of times as he smiled at Molly. “Oh, ain’t nothing going to happen to the lass that she don’t want.”

      Sherlock’s body tensed next to her as he bristled. She felt another pang of fear and her heart rate sped up. Sitting next to Sherlock in this state was like sharing a cab with a trapped bear. She looked over at him as he stretched his neck. His pupils enlarged in the darkness of the car and his eyes grew murky until they resembled burnt coals.

     They drove for what seemed like an age until the came to a very dimly lit, non-descript three story office building. Once inside, they were led through a series of hallways and passages until they ended up in a large shipping bay where several men surrounded someone in a chair. One of the men’s head’s rose when they arrived, he stepped away from the group and strode towards them using an umbrella as a walking stick.

     “Mycroft!” Sherlock spat as soon as he saw his brother.

     “Ah, hello, Sherlock. Good, now that you’re here . . .”

    Molly watched as Sherlock took a step, turned, appeared to try to hold himself in check and then took two more steps and swung at his brother. Molly covered her mouth as the sound of a _‘whap’_ echoed in the room and Mycroft stumbled backwards holding his face. Next thing she knew, a series of clicks sounded and a half-dozen guns pointed at Sherlock. Mycroft waved his free hand as he drew himself back to his full height and rubbed his jaw.

     “It’s alright. Stand down. Jesus, Christ, Sherlock. What the hell is wrong with you?”

      Sherlock flexed his hand and shook it out. 

     “What the hell is wrong with me?” He bit out. “Why did you feel it was necessary to have a pair of hooligans abduct Molly and myself?”

      Mycroft frowned. His eyes found Molly as she chewed her lip and then he glanced to the men who had brought them.

      “What the hell is she doing here?”

      The chubby fellow adjusted his jacket and lifted his chin. “You said to pick up this wanker and his companion.”

      Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Contractors!”

     His gaze fell on Molly.

     “Apologies, Dr. Hooper. I assumed if anyone was with Sherlock, it would John,” he looked at Sherlock with raised brows and waved his hand. “I certainly didn’t expect him to be with . . . um . . .”

     Sherlock reached for Molly’s hand and tugged her gently to his side. “My girlfriend.”

     Mycroft’s lips parted in surprise and he coughed. Molly felt her face flush hot.

     “Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft clucked his tongue. “You’re becoming a veritable Don Juan. Keep this up and you’ll break her heart.”

     Sherlock glowered at his brother. “I have no intention of breaking Molly’s heart.”

     Mycroft chuckled. “Who said anything about Dr. Hooper? No, I’m sure she’ll be glad to be rid of you when the time comes. I was speaking of Mummy, you buffoon. You’ll get her hopes up again with all this girlfriend nonsense. You know she had me follow that Janine around for a couple months after you two broke up just in case you, erm, had an _accident_. She was quite concerned and such with all the stories in the papers.”

     Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face. Molly felt his gaze on her and looked up to see him glancing sideways out of the corner of his eyes. His lid twitched when he noticed her gaze. He looked quite guilty actually. She felt a stab of jealousy as she recalled the stories about _‘Shag-a-lot’_ Holmes. She remembered reading the salacious articles and feeling like she’d been punched in the gut. Prior to that, she had deluded herself into believing that he was disinterested in a relationship or possibly gay. Why hadn’t he ever tried to seduce her if he was an insatiable sex addict? Was she that unattractive?

     Then again, he had referred to his relationship with Janine as “faux”. What was the meaning of "faux" anyways? Just because he didn’t care for Janine it did not follow that they hadn’t been intimate. Molly’s face heated as the demon of jealousy raged between her temples. She pressed her knuckles to her eyes.

     “Are you quite well, Dr. Hooper?” Mycroft inquired.

     Molly shook her head. “Do I need to be here? I’m starving and kn-knackered. I want to go home.”

     “Certainly, certainly. I’ll have the men return you if you like.”

     Molly looked over at the fellows who had brought them here and balked. Sherlock must have felt her stiffen.

     He made a low sound in his throat like a growl. “You’ll do no such thing. She’s not going anywhere without me. So, let’s get whatever this is over with.”

     “Really, you’re such a drama queen,” Mycroft smoothed his vest and wrinkled his nose as he sniffed. “What’s that smell, by the way? It’s quite malodorous like potpourri from a lavatory or something.”

     Molly pressed her lips together and turned away before she broke into a grin. When Sherlock huffed, she covered a snort as she tried not to laugh.

     “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “Don’t change the subject.”

     “Hmmf, come with me. We need to speak somewhere more discretely.”

    They followed Mycroft to an office adjacent to the loading bay. Once inside, he closed the door behind them and sat on the edge of the desk as Sherlock and Molly took the chairs opposite.

     “Let’s get to the point, shall we? How far have you gotten with your Moriarty investigation?”

     Sherlock sat back and folded his hands together under his chin. “I have my theories.”

     “Pfft, as I suspected,” Mycroft grumbled. “Nowhere. You are not making my job any easier, little brother. I still have people calling for your head yet you swan around as if there’s nothing the matter.”

     Sherlock shot to his feet and began pacing. “Please, I am but one man. You’re all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.”

     Mycroft nodded with brows raised. “Mm, and yet I still can’t put some of your mess back together again. Well, Sherlock, Mr. Robert Carruthers out there purports to be an associate of James Moriarty.”

     Sherlock's head snapped up. “And? So? What of it?"

     Mycroft dropped his eyes to the umbrella in his hands as he twirled it absentmindedly. Then his gaze returned to Sherlock's like an arrow to a target.

     “He claims he’s still alive.”


	6. The costume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear and anticipation.

 

     Molly watched as Sherlock circled the man named Robert Carruthers. He wore his typical intense, analytic expression (the one that made her naughty bits tingle) as he appraised the man. His brows drew together. Molly wondered if he was experiencing the same reservations as she. There was something off about Mr. Carruthers. By the way he dressed, he appeared to be trying to pass himself off as a youngish man of about twenty eight, but she would peg him closer to forty judging by the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Also, his hair colour was a little too rich, as if he had dyed it recently. She could be mistaken about both those things, but then there was the wariness in his wide brown eyes. 

     "You know Jim Moriarty?" Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back.

     The man nodded quickly. "I-I do."

     "How do you know him?" Sherlock prodded.

     "I worked for him."

     Sherlock looked down his nose at the man. "And you've come forward, for what reason was that again? Conscience?"

     "Yes, he's planning some sort of attack . . ."

     Sherlock held up his hand. "Just so I understand, you are going to keep on this track as long as I question you? Correct?"

     "I'm just trying to help."

     Sherlock sighed noisily and walked back to where Molly and Mycroft observed the interrogation.

     "Lying?" Mycroft asked.

     "Clearly," Sherlock replied.

     Mycroft let out a breath. "That's what I thought."

     "Then why did the hell did you waste all of our time? Are you slipping?" Sherlock kicked his umbrella with his foot. "I mean, look at him. He's clearly a washed up actor."

     Carruthers or whatever his name's face contorted in protest. "I'm not!"

     Sherlock turned and strode back up to the man. His words left his lips like the spray of an automatic weapon.

     "No, you're not washed up. Bad choice of words. I should say failed. You are a failed actor desperately clinging to a fading youth as indicated by the bad dye job and botox. Your clothes are an additional giveaway. You want them to look lived in like you're some down on your luck petty criminal but they're designer labels that have been run through the wash too many times as opposed to properly aged which is apparent by the fact the hems on the legs are entirely in-tact. If they were as well-worn as you would have us believe, there would be a tell tale wearing pattern from walking in the shape of a half-moon. Furthermore, I actually remember seeing you on television. A possibility you never considered as it would require a person to have an eidetic memory, something your dim mind can't contemplate. Unfortunately for you today, you have met two such people with that characteristic. Mycroft, agree? Three years ago on the comedy network, late night commercial, I believe his line was, _'Thanks to Hepavex, I have my life back'_."

     Mycroft smiled and tapped his umbrella on the floor. "Mm, yes, I thought I recognized his face. Herpes medication, right?"

     Molly smiled. Oh, Lord, the two of them were such a pair. Sherlock's reasoning made her giddy. His eyes slid sideways to hers. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

     Carruthers jumped up from his chair. "Alright, alright, yeah, I'm an actor but he said you'd sort it out eventually."

     Sherlock whirled around. "Who?"

     The man turned up his chin. "I wasn't lying. The man who hired me and asked me to pose as a lackey, he called himself Moriarty."

     Sherlock's lips set in thin line. "Did he?"

     "He did."

     "And did you actually meet this Moriarty character?"

     Carruthers scratched his head. "Ah . . . no. I only ever spoke to him over the phone."

     Sherlock huffed and glanced at Mycroft. "This is a waste of time. Some reporter has put him up to this and you fell for it."

     Mycroft shook his head. "No, he had reliable information. He recounted specific details that only Moriarty could have known."

     Sherlock made a noise. "Wake up, big brother. You've been taken in. He doesn't know anything."

     Carruthers cleared his throat. "He said you'd say that. He said you'd doubt me."

     Sherlock feigned surprise and waved his hands in mock capitulation. "Ooh, did he?"

     "Yeah," Carruthers nodded vigorously. "He told me if that were the case that I should give you a message."

     "A message? How original. This is straight out of a made for TV, crime drama script. Please, I'm ever so interested. What is this compelling missive you've been tasked to deliver?"

     Carruthers wrung his hands. "Um, well, he said he missed."

     "Missed?"

     "Yeah, missed. Your heart. He said to tell you that his aim was off but that he'd figured out where to strike the match. Your heart will burn this time, he said, with all the fires of hell."

                 *   *   *

     "Are you sure you're not hungry?" Molly asked Sherlock from the kitchen.

     "Yes," his voice drifted in from the living room.

     Molly hesitated in putting away the pasta she had made earlier that evening. She'd managed a few nibbles but Sherlock had refused her offering and plunked himself into his chair. He had spoken but two words since they had returned to Baker Street and before that, none as he had brooded in the cab on the way. She would see him fed, but knew it was futile. She sighed and tucked the leftovers back in the fridge. She poked her head around the corner then stepped into the room with him. Toby lazed around his feet.

    "Can I get you anything else?" She asked.

    His eyes raised momentarily, then dropped back to his hands. "No."

    "I could make tea."

    "Don't," He growled. "Molly . . . forgive me, I would like to be alone."

    She dipped her head. She stared at him for just a moment longer. She wanted to comfort him, somehow, but didn't even know where to start. So, she left it to Toby to offer solace.

    "Good night, then."

    He didn't answer. Molly prepared for bed, brushed her teeth and retreated to the bedroom. She was about to change into her regular pajamas when she spotted her shopping bag from earlier in the day. She chewed on her lip. It seemed a silly thing to do now, but there was some practicality to wearing a lighter garment to bed. Without further thought, she slipped the nightdress over her head. She glanced at herself in the mirror and felt a flush wash over her body. Pity he couldn't see the slim length of her limbs and curve of her bare shoulders (her best features, she thought).

     Molly hopped into bed and turned off the bedside lamp. She closed her eyes. She tried not to think about Moriarty or what that meant for all of them but knew for the second night in a row, sleep would be elusive. 

     That's when she heard the first mournful strain of Sherlock's violin. Her eyes fluttered open. The tremulous tones pierced right to her soul. She could feel him and his uncertainty and sorrow with every keening note. Just a few long drawn out vibrations said everything. She wiped a tear from her eye.

     "Yerrrooowl!"

     Molly clapped both hands over her mouth. Oh. Toby! Oh, no. The music stopped for a moment and she listened as Sherlock spoke to her cat. She couldn't hear his words but he sounded as if he were reassuring Toby. Again, he began to play.

    "Maaaooow."

     Once more, he was interrupted. Molly laughed sadly through her fingers but guilt flooded her belly. She had spent a good part of an hour teaching Toby to wail in response to the sound of the violin. It seemed like a fun bit of mischief at the time but right then she felt terrible. The third result of Sherlock's attempt to play was the same. Molly hopped out of bed and padded out to the living room.

     An ache settled into her heart as she surveyed the scene. She rubbed her chest. Sherlock's back was to her, his shirt untucked and drifting about his hips. Her cat sat regally atop his chair sucking up his attention. Sherlock scratched Toby's head and mumbled soothing platitudes with his violin tucked under one arm.

     "Ahem, sorry," She said softly, "I can take him to the room if you like."

     His curls bounced as he shook his head. "No, it's all right. Toby here is quite remarkable. I think he's a music aficionado . . ."

     His voice trailed off as he turned around. His eyes scanned quickly over her frame but lingered on her legs and bare feet. God, she felt naked under his scrutiny as his gaze traveled back up her form. Every inch of her ignited on the way. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

     He blinked several times when he met her stare. "Y-y-you've upgraded your sleepwear."

     Molly looked down at her pale peach nightdress with its smattering of little white flowers across the bodice. "Erm, yes, it's been awhile since I've shared a bed. I-I was very warm last night."

     Never had awkward felt so good. She heard some movement and looked back up. Sherlock had returned his violin to its stand and stood with his hands hanging and his fingers dancing at his sides.

     "Don't let me stop you from playing," Molly said quickly. "I'll just go back to bed if you're okay."

     He shook his head.  

     "Don't worry," A muscle flecked in his jaw. "I won't be playing any more tonight. I cannot concentrate right now."

     "Sherlock . . ."

     His lips parted and he let out a long breath.

     "I underestimated," he said hoarsely as he waved his hand around, "this . . . all of this."

     Molly crossed her toes nervously. "What do you mean?"

     Sherlock moved towards her. There was something about his somewhat untidy state that caused a wild stirring in her abdomen. His hair was in disarray, the top and bottom buttons of his shirt were undone, his cuffs were pushed up his arms and his feet were bare. His eyes constricted as he advanced. 

    "Never mind," he mumbled. 

     His hands cupped her face in an instant and he swooped down to kiss her. His lips stifled her gasp and moved over hers like a possessed fiend. She wasn't prepared for the contact, let alone the ferocity with which he claimed her mouth. Her arms were squished between them and her hands caught up against his chest. She felt off-kilter and vulnerable as if she were dangling over a void. She spread her fingers out over the front of his shirt, desperate to anchor herself to something. He relented briefly, allowing her to wrap her arms around his neck before clutching her tightly to his hard frame. She intertwined her fingers in the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. A groan emanated from deep within him that she felt vibrate through every cell in her body. Then his mouth returned to claim hers once more.

     Molly was aflame. Every inch of her skin tingled with heat. Flush after flush caused her insides to quiver. This wasn't an experiment or practice, this was Sherlock full-on ravaging her like some damsel out of a corset-busting romance. She could positively explode from the tension. With a muffled sigh, she opened her mouth to him. His tongue thrust in and she could almost imagine what it would be like to have him penetrate somewhere even more intimate. She felt a throb between her legs with the thought. Then, his tongue clashed with hers; hot, wet . . . greedy. A tremor ran the length of her body. If he hiked up her nightdress right then, she'd let him do whatever the hell he wanted.

     It was too much, much too much. Her head spun and she actually swooned a little against him. He broke away and searched her face. She felt his hold loosen and his expression clouded over. He set her away from him slightly, holding her elbows for a moment as she regained her faculties.

     "I am sorry," he mumbled and released her. "Forgive me."

     Molly ached all over, but she wasn't sore. She wanted to plaster herself to him again and demand he sate the lust making every nerve in her body pulse. She felt like a ninny for turning to jelly in his arms. God, he probably thought her pathetic but no amount of fervent daydreams could have prepared her for the effect his actual embrace had on her libido. She sucked in a breath. She could go mushy again just reliving how indescribably hot it was to be set upon by Sherlock Holmes.

     "Sherlock . . ."

     He blinked and gave his head a shake. Then, he stepped away and whirled, almost spinning in a circle as he appeared to search for something. He began tucking his shirt back into his pants. 

     "F-forgive me," he repeated. "I-I have to go."

     Molly felt as if a cold drink was thrown in her face. He was in a panic to bolt for an exit like someone had turned on the ugly lights at the end of the night in a club. She felt a tremor in her hands. Stupid, silly, simple Molly! What did she expect? He looked like he'd rather chew his own arm off than encourage her any further.

     "Where are you going?" She asked, her voice sounded so small.

     "I - ah- just remembered, I have something to do," he winced at his own words then looked at her with a grimace.

     She folded her arms. Anger replaced lust.

     "Yeah, you're right. You had better fucking leave, Sherlock Holmes." 

     

 

     

    

       

      

     

     


	7. The plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Mary. More Sherlock being Sherlock and what is Irene up to?

 

     "So, you received these today, then?"

     Sherlock studied the two different pearls in his hand as he sat across from Mary in her flat. John was at his clinic working as he had been the previous visit. One was very white with striations that looked like opalescent flames and the other was nearly black, like a pebble of onyx. Polar opposites. He looked up at Mary's anxious face.

     "Yes, by courier again from some anonymous sender."

     Sherlock had become a bit of an expert about pearls as of late. The white gem was from a giant clam of some sorts, most likely the tridacna species that inhabited the waters around Indonesia. The black pearl was probably harvested from the genus pinna rugosa, a fan clam found along the pacific coast of North America. However, he was having trouble making the connection between the five different pearls even though he knew there must be some significance to the gems Mary had been sent. The Abalone pearl probably originated in New Zealand or Australian waters. Whereas the pink pearl had been collected from a queen conch that resided in the Caribbean. The scallop pearl had almost certainly come from a pacific lion's paw in Mexico. 

     "Mary, do you know where all these were collected?"

     She nodded. "I looked them up, yeah."

     "Do their origins hold any meaning for you?"

     Mary shook her head. "Nah, not particularly."

     "You didn't visit any of these places during the course of your previous employment? Australia, Indonesia, Mexico, possibly Honduras?

     She shifted in her seat. Her face blanched. 

     "I traveled to a lot of places. I'm sure I probably visited all of those you mentioned . . ."

     Sherlock slammed the pearls down on her coffee table.

     "Now I know you're not being entirely forthcoming, Mary. I don't have time for this. I am fighting specters at every turn and all of them intent on leaving a smoldering hole in my chest. If you aren't going to help me, you're a hindrance and one I can ill afford right now." He checked his watch. "As it is, I've left that part of myself exposed for far too long. I need to get going."

     Mary picked up the black and white pearls he had set down. "John has forgiven me so much, Sherlock. More than any man should have to forgive of his wife. I am being honest with you when I say I don't know who has sent these. Have you had no luck tracing them back to the sender?"

     "Luck?" He made a sound. "I would hardly need that. No, the sender has covered his or her tracks very well which is why I suspect, as do you, someone from your old life. You need to tell me more about it. I have resisted probing your past because it's a can of worms but I don't think we can ignore it any longer."

     Mary looked away. "It's more than worms, Sherlock. It's full of adders and vipers and you name it. I fear that if you ask even one question of the wrong person, I will be exposed. These stupid pearls, they could be nothing. They could be from John."

     Sherlock barked a laugh. "John is not smart enough to put something like this past you, let alone myself. Mary, I do know you are not British. I suspect you are American and worked for the CIA, or at least contracted for the CIA. You have to give me more credit, I have dealt with much smarter organizations than those lot."

     Mary smiled tightly. "What else have you deduced about the former me?"

     His eyes narrowed. "Your marksmanship was not something you picked up as an adult. Your hands are much too steady and your aim too true. You have been fascinated with guns since you were a child, encouraged by a grandparent, most likely your grandfather because you were his only grandchild. Your father was gay which is why your parents divorced and also the reason you have no siblings. Your mother wanted a complete break and gave up custody of you. So, you were left to your father who then left you with your grandfather for extended periods once he decided to be true to himself. You bonded with your grandfather over long guns and hunting. You knew how to effectively kill large mammals before you turned twelve. This is one of the reasons they recruited you."

     Mary's eyes slid away as she cursed. Sherlock watched her blink away a thousand memories. 

     "I don't even want to know how you determined my father's sexuality but don't pat yourself on the back too heavily," she murmured. "You didn't get everything right."

     He sat forward. "What? What is it? Your mother is also dead? Was it your grandmother who taught you to shoot?"

     She sighed. "I'm Canadian."

     Sherlock exhaled noisily and sat back in his seat. "There's always something."

     Mary laughed sadly. "The CIA likes Canadian recruits, you see. We're the last ones suspected and pretty much welcome anywhere. Of course, they won't claim us as their own. We're usually hired third party just like you said."

     He rose from the chair and paced. "I have been looking in all the wrong places. I've spent way too much time scouring archives in Texas."

     "You thought I was a Texan? Interesting. Try Alberta. It's called the Texas of the north. Oil country."

     Sherlock stopped in front of her and planted a foot. "You must tell me your name now. Angela? Abigail?"

     "Agatha Ralston," Her face pinched. "Agra was my grandfather's nickname for me. Short for 'agravate'."

     Mary's eyes misted over. Her sudden display of melancholy made Sherlock's feet itch. He wanted to flee.  

     "I'm going to excuse your emotional state as due to hormones," he said with a huff. 

     She picked up a couch cushion and threw it at him. "You always know just the right thing to say."

     He arched a brow and picked up the cushion. "Really? That comforted you? Interesting."

     "No, you dumb prick. It's just hard to cry when I'm pissed off."

     "Women," he muttered as he returned the small pillow to the couch.

     Mary sat upright in her seat. "Now that's not something I've heard you say before. Having female trouble lately, Mr. Holmes? Would this have anything to do with your new roommate?"

     "Girlfriend," he muttered.

     Mary laughed. "Riiiiight. You know John tells me everything, including stories about faux girlfriends? Seriously though, what are you doing to that poor girl?"

     Sherlock slouched back into his seat. He waved his hand around as he fought for words. What was he doing? Even he wasn't one hundred percent certain.

     "I am trying to protect her," the words fell from his lips before he could stop them.

     Mary's face went slack. She swallowed and fanned herself.

     "Really? Oh, that's so sweet. God, oh, you're making me weepy again."

     He glared at her sideways. "I'll thank-you not to repeat that to John."

     "No, I won't but Sherlock . . . make sure you know who you're really protecting her from."

                             *   *   *

     Molly waved at her new friend from across the coffee shop and then navigated to her table with hot beverage in hand.

     "Hello, sorry to keep you waiting."

     Irene smiled. She looked so put together wearing a floral print wrap dress and wide brimmed, linen colored hat that both looked like something the royal duchess would wear. Molly wanted to resent the woman her keen fashion sense and beauty, but it was not in her nature. Besides, Irene had been so nice to her during her shopping expedition and her advice had actually worked, albeit, with perplexing results. Irene stood up. She kissed Molly on the cheek. Molly touched her face absentmindedly where her lips had seemed to linger.

     “Hello, Puppet, how are you?” She returned.

     Molly shrugged. “Okay, I suppose.”

     She made a ‘tsk’ sound. “Only okay? I thought you might regale me with happier tales.”

     Molly’s face heated. “I don’t have much to tell, sorry.”

    Irene pouted. “Pity, is your beau being difficult?”

    Molly slid into the seat across from Irene at the metal, bistro-like table and set down her drink. She sighed.

    “You have no idea,” she muttered.

    “Oh, I can imagine. Men are peculiar creatures. Some more than others, hmm?”

     Molly nodded. Irene reached across the table and covered her hand. Molly wasn’t sure what to make of her familiar manner. True, they seemed to make fast friends at the shop, but she wasn’t sure why Irene had taken such a keen interest in her specifically. A warning bell chimed in the back of her mind and she could hear Sherlock’s voice cautioning her to be more wary.

     “So, you should tell me all about your problems and I’ll see if I can offer any better advice,” Irene prodded.

     Molly looked down a moment remembering how her mouth had run the first time they’d met. Irene already knew where she worked and what she did for a living as well as a lot about the moody Mr. Holmes, even though she had withheld his name and didn’t dare admit they were only pretending to date. Yet she knew little of her in return. She searched the other woman’s face.

     “Um, well, I don’t know. I go on about it too much.”

    She smiled and shook her head. “No, not at all. Molly, please, I feel such a kinship with you. I really want to help if I can. I rarely make friends and it’s so hard to meet any intelligent women with whom I can converse.”

     A shrug lifted Molly’s shoulders. Irene’s plea struck a chord. There was a tremor of loneliness in her tone she instantly recognized. She pressed her lips together a second. She had no reason to be suspicious and truth be told, she found it taxing to view everyone through that lens all the time.

     Molly sipped from the tea she had bought. “I wore the dress.”

     Irene clapped her hands. “Did you? How did that go?”

     “His reaction surprised me,” her face warmed again, “but I don’t know what to make of it. Then afterwards . . . he bolted.”

     “Oh, oh, no. I’m sorry to hear that. Is that usual for him?”

     “I-I don’t know. I can’t help thinking that he’s holding back and I don’t know the reason except that maybe, he doesn’t really want to encourage anything authentic,” her words were too close to the truth and she wriggled in her seat uncomfortably. “Yet, he’s proved capable of deep affection for others and he has, erm, a sliver of interest at least. Is it just me? Be honest. Am I ridiculous?”

     Irene flinched. A troubled look flitted across her face.

     “No, far from it, Molly. You are a very rare gem.”

     Molly waved her hand and looked away. “Go on.”

     Irene perked back up. “No, I mean it. I don’t know you very well, but I am confident. It’s not you, darling, it’s him.”


	8. The score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut-lite. Enjoy a bit of a tease.

     “But I don’t know how to read Spanish!” Molly protested.

     Sherlock waved his hand around. “Use a translator app then. There’s hundreds of them.”

     Molly slammed the papers he had given her minutes before down on the lab bench. “Even so, I don’t know what you expect me to conclude from fifteen year old reports from a third world country on a patient on which I have no other medical history.”

     His pale green eyes rolled. “Yes, well, I would do it and save myself the hassle of . . . this . . . but I have far more important things to do.”

     She glowered at Sherlock. “And I don’t? I’ve a whole slew of post mortems to do.”

     “Nothing urgent then,” he adjusted the lapels of his trench coat. “I mean, what is going to happen? It’s not as if they can be any more deceased. They can wait.”

     Molly pressed her lips together. For some reason, when Sherlock had waltzed into her lab, she had the fleeting thought he might apologize for the previous evening. Instead, he demanded she look into the death of some mystery man by the name of Anthony Ralston. Well, she wasn’t having it. She was tired of blindly following Sherlock Holmes whenever he barked a command.

     “No,” Molly said.

     It was a very straightforward syllable. One couldn’t misinterpret ‘no’, could they?

     “No?” Sherlock hiked a brow.

     He loosened his scarf and slid it from around his neck, his eyes were fixated on her face with a squint the entire time. Molly felt a tightening in her belly as he rounded the bench towards her and deposited his scarf on its surface with a flourish of his long fingers. She remained in place defiantly, determined to hold her ground as he approached.

     “Did I stutter?” She asked, wishing she didn’t sound so goddamned breathless.

     She backed against the bench for support just as he infiltrated her space. One of his hands, then the other trapped her in the prison of his arms as he placed them on the bench and leaned in. God, why did she let him do this? He was using every advantage he had to intimidate her such as his broad body, his height, his sexily narrowed eyes and his full lips. The heat jumped between them as his large coat practically enveloped them both.

     “Since when do you say no to me?” He asked, his low timber rolled over her.

     She licked her lips. He noticed. Oh, she died an ecstatic little death every time his eyes flitted to her mouth that way. A ripple moved across his face with some undercurrent of emotion she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

     “I-I say no constantly,” she said hoarsely. “You just choose to ignore me.”

     His head lowered. She felt lips brush her temple.

     “You are impossible to ignore, Molly,” he murmured. “Mm, and I do not approve of this ‘no’ business.”

     A subtle citrus and sandalwood cologne tickled her nostrils followed by the very faint smell of flowers from her massage oil. She caught her lip in her teeth for a second. Damn, that scent was starting to turn her on.

     “Y-you don’t hear ‘no’ enough.”

     “You may be right,” he mumbled. “I do however, prefer an affirmative. What do I need to do to hear you say, ‘yesss’?”

     She trembled all over as he drew out the last word. She knew exactly what he was doing. He was a master at manipulation. He should be awarded a freakin’ doctorate in it the way he had her blood pumping.

     “Arg, you’re not playing f-fair, Sherlock, and you know it,” she whispered.

     “Me?” He asked with a growl that rumbled in her ear. “Everything about you ties me in knots.”

     Molly gulped. Was he serious or was this Sherlock being Sherlock and doing whatever he needed to get his way? She wished she could see his face because it usually ticked when he lied. His large body shifted and for a moment she thought he was stepping back.

     “Wh-what are you . . . oh!” She nearly jumped out of her skin when his hands moved to her midsection.

     His lips feathered over her forehead and down over her brow. They left a blazing trail across her skin. A puff of air left his lips.

     “I see we still need to work on the way you react to my touch.”

     “Sherlock . . .”

     He pushed her lab coat apart and tugged at her shirt. She inhaled sharply when his hands, warm and just a little rough slid under her shirt and around her waist. His fingers splayed out over her belly. She didn’t flinch this time. Instead, her insides turned to a quivering mush and she eased into his hold.

     “Better,” he murmured, “but, hmm, perhaps we need to increase our level of intimacy to achieve a more appropriate response.”

     Sherlock gripped her waist and hoisted her up on the bench. She clutched his shoulders.

     “No, really, I’m serious this time. What are you doing?” She whispered harshly.

     Molly’s lips parted as his hand loosened the tie at her waistband dipped into her scrubs. When his fingers slid lower underneath her knickers and found her warm center, she nearly fainted from shock. Before she could exclaim, his mouth clamped over hers and swallowed her cry.

     Sherlock’s slender fingers worked their way down as his mouth moved in tune over hers. He teased her with his lips as his hand stroked her folds. Every caress of her sensitive flesh made her legs tense and her belly quake. An orchestra of sensation overtook her body. Her nerves crashed like the clanging of cymbals, her pulse beat like the thumping of drums, waves of sensation roiled through her loins and a tension built like a crescendo.

     “I want to hear you acquiesce,” he said gruffly against her mouth. “Do you want me to continue?”

     His thumb rubbed over her clit which sent a jolt through her sex.

     She jerked in response. “Sherlock, God!”

     “I’m not hearing the correct word. Do you want this?”

     She was hot with embarrassment. She was achy already and his fingers were slick with her arousal. They glided warm and wet over her cleft.

     “Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, please, yes.”

     Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he continued his ministrations. Once in a while he would nip at her lip and gently flick below with his finger which sent a delicious ripple along her inner walls. Each new sensation wound her up more tightly. He played her like his violin ever approaching the swell. He continued to kiss her languidly until a tremor coursed through her and she ground her hips against his hand. He sucked in a breath then and kissed her hard, forcing her lips apart. At the same time his tongue invaded her mouth, he pulled her towards him on the bench and plunged two fingers into her body. She clenched around them.

     She was completely gone then, unaware of anything around her except him and the way he possessed her with two large digits and his tongue and how they each thrust into her. She felt a deep heat between her thighs and a strain as the tension became unbearable. Then, she was caught in a downward spiral from which she couldn’t escape as a tingle turned into an explosion at her center. She grasped his wrist to still his movements as her orgasm overtook her and her body pulsed with release. Spasm after spasm undulated along her insides.

     “Aah,” she sucked in a breath. “Hell!”

     She dropped her head to his shoulder. Her legs shuddered and her stomach clenched for several seconds as she recovered from the assault on her senses. Sherlock’s hand crept up her back to play with her ponytail. She felt his lips press to the side of her neck as the instrument of her pleasure, his other hand, left her knickers.

     “Oh, crap,” her head flew up

     She looked wildly around the lab. Her heart rate slowed once she saw they were still alone. Her face burned with mortification. She couldn’t believe she had just let him do that and in the middle of the day at Bart’s of all places. Any number of technicians could have discovered them. The repercussions would have been endless.

     She tapped on his shoulders several times. “L-let me down.”

     “Relax, Molly,” he murmured. “The door is locked.”

     A sickening realization dawned.

     She pushed at him. “Did y-you plan this?”

     He lifted his head to look at her. His eyes searched around before his lips poked to the side. The she saw it, that infuriating tick as his eyelid twitched.

     “No?”

     “Sherlock Holmes!” She pushed him more forcefully and hopped off the bench.

     Her legs were still a bit shaky and she wavered as her feet hit the floor. His hand closed on her arm like a vise and held her steady.

     “Alright, perhaps I had some ideas but we have been a bit on the outs today. I had hoped to persuade you . . .”

     Molly’s head spun. She shook his arm off and retreated.

     “Is that what th-this was about, oh . . . oh, fucking Christ!”

     Her hand flew to her mouth. She was going to puke. She was well and truly ashamed of herself, her reaction to him and her gullibility. What made it worse was that she still hummed and she felt her blood stir as her body looked for another fix. Her scrub bottoms slipped. Heat flooded her neck and face as she fumbled to secure them again.

     “Oh, my God! Get out of here right now!” She whispered harshly.

     “Sooo,” his lips parted slightly and he crooked his neck, “does this mean you are . . . _not?_   . . . going to offer an opinion about Anthony Ralston’s death?”

    Molly gritted her teeth as she seethed. Without thinking, she marched up to him with balled fists and then popped him once in the nose. She felt a burst of pain in her hand as his head went back. Dazed, he stepped back once, twice and then grasped the counter. She stretched her fingers. Dang, it hurt to do that!

     Sherlock touched his nose. A trickle of blood became a torrent. Guilt twisted her guts.

     “See, oh . . .  y-you prick,” she cried. “Twice in my life have I ever been physically violent with anyone and both of those times have been with you. I-I don’t want to be like that and I hate that you make me behave that way.”

     Tears stung her eyes. She felt them well up and spill over her lids. She grabbed a disposable hand towel, threw it at him and then hurried for the door.

     “Molly, wait.”

     He caught her in just a few strides. His eyes were wide as he attempted to staunch the blood flow.

     “Molly, I . . .”

     The lab door jiggled as someone tried to open it. Then a sharp rapping followed.

     “Dr. Hooper?”  A woman called. “Are you in there?”

      Sherlock squeezed her wrist. “Return home to Baker Street tonight. We need to talk.”

     Molly pressed her lips together. If a cat had nine lives, Sherlock Holmes had a thousand. His face was open, slack and his eyes just a bit round above the bunched up paper like a child who had been scolded. He flinched as he repositioned the towel again.

     “Um . . . _please_?”  

     Molly took a breath. If she hadn’t caused him injury, she would have been long gone.

     “I don’t know right now,” she replied with a sniff. “I’ll think about it.”


	9. The tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate to put Molly through this but something needs to spark that dang Mr. Holmes to get him off his duff and solve some things.

“What the hell happened to your nose? Why is it all red?”

     Sherlock sat back into his chair. “A misunderstanding.”

     “I see. John, care to elaborate?” Mycroft turned to the smaller man.

     John lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell me. I assumed he said something stupid to the wrong person.”

     “Hmm, is there such thing as a right person where he’s concerned?” Mycroft took a sip of his tea.

     John laughed. “The right person might have done this as well.”

     Sherlock let his head fall back and gestured to the ceiling in frustration. “Shut up, both of you. I cannot think.”

     His eyes wandered around Mycroft’s office. Everything served as a distraction. The low white leather chairs, the new floor to ceiling mirrors and the brightness of the glossy cream paint.

     “Why are you redecorating?” His head tilted forward as he glowered at his brother.

     Mycroft looked around. “We update every now and then. It was decided we should try to appear a little less imperialistic and more modern.”

     Sherlock exhaled noisily.

     “It’s ghastly,” he waved his hand around. “It’s too efficient, too glaring, too . . . German or something.”

     Mycroft’s eyes widened with undisguised amusement before he smirked. “You dislike it? I’m devastated.”

     Sherlock opened his mouth again to retort but John interrupted him. “Ah, let’s get back to the subject at hand because I don’t like to leave my wife alone very long these days. So, you were unable to trace who hired the actor?”

     “Not unable,” Mycroft blustered. “We are still working on some angles and we’ve all but eliminated the real Moriarty as the culprit.”

     “How?” John asked.

     Sherlock groaned. “His head was blown off, John. I saw his brains splattered across the roof of Bart’s. We DNA matched his remains for Christ’s sake. It’s not him!”

     Sherlock pushed up from his chair and began circling the room and muttering to himself as he picked up various objects and then moved them to a different location.

     “Stop that!” Mycroft shouted at him.

     “I’m improving things. Ssh! Continue your discussion. It’s oh-so revelatory.”

    Mycroft returned his gaze to John with a sigh. “Hmph, we’re almost certain this is the work of an agency. The tools and methods they are using are not the standard issue of a criminal organization. The steps employed to recruit the dreary Mr. Carruthers were very sophisticated such as paying him in converted currency that was untraceable and tower hopping algorithms for cellular communication. If I didn’t know any better, I would say the Americans were involved.”

     Sherlock stopped in his tracks and tilted his head. “Like the CIA?”

     Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he looked up from his desk. “Yes, that was one of our thoughts. Why did they come to mind for you?”

     Sherlock’s eyes rounded for a moment before he shrugged and jutted his lip out. “No particular reason. Carry on.”

     Both Mycroft and John shook their heads.

     “Anyways, John, of course we feel we will eventually trace this back to some government’s involvement, the question becomes why?” Mycroft glared at Sherlock. “Which is where you seem to be falling down, little brother.”

     Sherlock turned on his heel and threw a small, white ceramic sculpture the shape of a twisting wave in the trash. The sound of crack issued from the bin.

      “As always, I’m way ahead of you lot,” he declared. “I only come to these briefings for a laugh and to reassure myself of my superior investigation skills. Are we quite finished? I knew all this already. I’m bored.”

     Mycroft looked over into the trash at the broken sculpture and made a ‘tsk’ sound. “Yes, I do believe you’re done enough damage. Pity that, it was one of my favorites.”

     Sherlock swooped into his Belstaff. “Yes, bland and predictable. Very much your style but hardly the sophisticated look for which you strive. John, are you coming?”

     John rolled his eyes and hopped out of his seat. “We’re done then?”

     “Like burnt toast,” Sherlock muttered.

     Out in the hallway, John hurried after Sherlock as he strode purposefully towards the elevator.

     “Do you think your brother is right? Do you think all this nonsense about Moriarty’s return is the work of some foreign agency?”

     Sherlock looked at John out the side of his eye. “I had my suspicions but Mycroft has all but confirmed them.”

     John furrowed his brows as they stepped into the elevator. “So, if you weren’t sure, why did you tell him you were way ahead of his team?”

     Sherlock crooked a brow as he pressed the ground floor button and the doors glided closed. “I would hardly give him the satisfaction. No, encouraging a little competition between us has always worked out very well. Mycroft does most of the dirty work while I come out looking like the hero when I wrap things up.”

     John crossed his arms, shook his head and laughed. “You really are a colossal douchebag, aren’t you?”

     Sherlock flipped up his collar and stretched his neck. “I’m efficient. You should try it sometime.”

     John waved his hands. “What? Being a douche? No thanks, I quite like being able to breathe at night.”

                     *   *   *

     Molly attempted to hail a second cab outside Bart’s but like the first, it whizzed by. She frowned as she glanced up at the darkening sky. She had been slammed with work that day and then decided to look at Sherlock’s file after all. Trying to sort out what happened to Mr. Ralston had taken the better part of two hours.

     “No luck with cabs tonight?” Someone asked to her left.

     Molly looked over at a girl she recognized from the upstairs pathology lab named Paula.

     “Oh, Hello. Yeah, I don’t know if I’m going to luck out tonight or not.”

     “Ah, well, maybe we’ll have better luck if I stand with you. You live over in near Gilverton Square, right?”

     Molly nodded. “I do, but, erm, I’m going over to my . . . boyfriend’s house tonight.”

     “Where’s he at?”

     “Um, Baker Street.”

     “Even better. Want to split the fare?”

     “Sure.”

     Later, Molly would not be able to recall much about the incident nor fathom the reason why Paula would answer in her place but those few precious seconds made all the difference.

     “Molly Hooper?”

     Molly heard her name spoken by a male in a very deliberate manner as if called at a Doctor’s office but for some reason Sherlock’s voice rang in her head and she hesitated to respond.

     _“Never immediately reply when someone asks for you. Wait until their second or third enquiry.”_

She, along with Paula turned from the street to see who asked the question.

     “Yeah?” Paula responded.

     Out of the dark like the upswing of a pendulum, an arm raised cantilevered by a black object which glinted as the light danced across its lines. Molly’s lips parted as she saw a flash and heard an ear-shattering pop which echoed off the hospital walls around them. Paula’s head twitched as something spurted from its rear, then she crumbled to the ground. It was in that instant as the arm pivoted in her direction that Molly realized the object was a gun.

     Without thinking, she swung up with her bag which was still heavy with an uneaten lunch and whacked it against the assailant. Another loud pop sounded and she felt something whiz through her hair and burn her ear like a searing hot iron. She swung again with all her might and cried out like it was the end of times. She heard a grunt and the clacking sound of metal hitting concrete.

     Voices shouted from the direction of the hospital. Molly looked up to see a shadowy figure with a black bandana retreat into the darkness and then he turned and ran away. His steps echoed into the night.

     Years of training and a stint in the ER before she began her residency in pathology kicked in. Molly dropped to her knees beside the injured Paula and felt her stomach turn. She knew as the blood trickled across her brow and pooled underneath her head that Paula was going to die but that didn’t stop her from divesting herself of her favorite cardigan with its bright red poppies and pressing it to Paula’s wound. She cried as the blood soaked quickly through the fabric and the poppies disappeared.

     “Stay with me, please,” she whispered.

     Molly lifted her head. She heard panicked voices and saw bystanders milling about.

     “Help! Help us!” She cried and waved.

     Finally, people came running. One, two, three . . . she lost count. A flurry of activity burst around her and she was gently pushed aside. She plopped onto the curb and watched as Paula was rushed into the hospital. Someone stopped next to her.

     “Dr. Hooper? Is that you?” A young nurse asked.

     Molly was dazed. She barely nodded. She had just escaped death in almost the exact location where Sherlock had taken his infamous plunge.

     “My goodness, you’re bleeding! You had better come inside.”

     Molly patted herself and discovered a warm, wet substance on her neck. She held up her hand, turned her quivering fingers in the light from a street lamp and saw they were covered with blood. Her vision swam.

     “Dr. Hooper? Dr. Hooper, do you need assistance?”

     Molly began to shake uncontrollably. “Y-yes, I think so.”


	10. The development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is someone starting to pull his head out of his arse? Hopefully it's not too short lived.

   

     “Wait, wait, wait,” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “You can’t just barge in there.”

     Sherlock shook him off. “I can and I will.”

     “You can but you shouldn’t. Now’s not the best time to be, well, you. She’s probably just had the fright of her life. You stomping in there and barking commands is not what she needs right now.”

     Sherlock’s fingers danced on the door handle to Greg’s office. “You don’t know what she needs.”

     John stepped forward and lowered his voice as the police station buzzed around them. “I think I have a bit more experience in this than you do. I’ve been to war, real war, Sherlock. I know what it’s like when someone else takes a bullet meant for you. The absolute worst thing that can happen for her right now is for you to somehow make her feel she is at fault.”

     Sherlock frowned sideways at John. “I would never want her to think that.”

     “Maybe not, but you might all the same.”

     Sherlock’s hand fell from the door. His fingers dangled at his sides.

     “What . . . what do I do? What would you do for your, um, girlfriend?”

     John folded his arms and cocked his head to one side as he blinked at Sherlock. He shook his head.

    “But Molly’s not your girlfriend,” one eye squinted as he appraised Sherlock. “She’s not your anything.”

     Sherlock scrunched his hand into a fist and touched it to his forehead. He closed his eyes briefly.

     “John, that’s a ludicrous statement,” he retorted while rubbing his forehead with his knuckle. “She’s m-my . . . pathologist.”

     John scoffed. “Yeah, don’t tell her that. You’ll just dig yourself a hole.”

     He opened his hand and swirled his finger as he pointed it at John. “She’s my friend . . .”

     John raised his brows. “Not better.”

     Sherlock made a frustrated grunt and ran his fingers through his hair. “You really are nonsensical. She knows she’s important to me. I really do not see how applying an arbitrary label to something that defies description makes a difference.”

     A low whistle escaped John’s lips. “Blimey. I think I’ve fallen through a worm hole into a different dimension. Is . . . is this not an act for you, Sherlock?”

     “Don’t be ridiculous!”

     John grabbed Sherlock’s arm before he could open the door. “Okay, okay. Forget I asked. Um, what you need to do is, well, shut your face. Don’t say anything. It will be enough that you’re here. Trust me.”

     Sherlock’s eyes constricted as he thought about John’s advice. “Noted.”

     John didn’t appear convinced as Sherlock whipped open the door. Greg Lestrade looked up from his desk with a wrinkled brow.

     “You two didn’t waste any time,” he muttered.

     Sherlock’s gaze found Molly sitting off to the side enveloped in a policeman’s jacket, possibly Greg’s, which irritated him for some strange reason. Her arms were crossed over her knees which she had drawn up to her chest. Her hair was bundled messily in a bun. He clenched his teeth and huffed in a breath through his nose when he saw that her ear was bandaged and there was still a bit of dried blood on her neck. She looked incredibly small and vulnerable. The entire scene lit off a blaze of anger in his brain. He wanted to combust.

      When she didn’t immediately look at him, his white hot rage was tempered by a moment of panic. She twitched, dropped her chin and sunk into the over-sized jacket. He had no doubt her connection to him was the reason for the attempt on her life and wondered if she resented him for it.

     No one spoke for a moment until Molly sniffed. Sherlock took a couple hesitant steps and then crouched in front of her chair. Her eyes finally fluttered to his, luminous with unshed tears before they darted sideways.

     “I-I c-c-can’t look at you,” she whispered. “I don’t want to c-cry.”

     He frowned and shook his head as her lip trembled. “You are entitled to cry, Molly.”

     She nodded sadly as her lips turned down. She wriggled out of the jacket and an instant later launched herself into his arms. He teetered back on his heels and then stood up with his tiny pathologist clinging to him. He was stiff for a moment until she starting sobbing into his shoulder. His hand spread across her back while the other cupped the nape of her neck. Relief flooded through him like the most potent of highs and he gripped her tighter. She was safe, in one piece and she did not hate him. He let his chin fall to her shoulder and breathed in her quintessential scent; baby powder deodorant, orange blossoms and just the barest hint of hospital disinfectant. His heart skipped several beats as his stomach turned over. If tomorrow he had woken up and that combination had been removed from the world, he did not know how he would continue to function.

     “I am sorry, Molly,” he murmured.

     John laughed faintly in disbelief behind him. “So he says the perfect things.”

     Greg coughed. “Yeah, um, let’s go get some coffee. John?”

     “Right!”

     Molly’s sobs subsided not long after they were left alone in Greg’s office. Even so, Sherlock continued to rub her back until her small frame stopped shuddering.

     “What can I do?” He asked gruffly.

     She sniffed a couple times against his collar. “Take me home.”

     He swallowed. “T-to, ahem, um, your flat?”

     “No, to Baker Street.”

                                            *   *   *

     “Here you go, my dear,” Mrs. Hudson said as she handed Molly a cup of tea.

     “Thank-you, Mrs. Hudson.”

     Molly took a sip of the tea. It was a bit hot yet so she set it down on the table next to her seat. Her eyes flitted quickly to Sherlock. He sat in his chair with an intense look on his face as if lost in thought, until he noticed her gaze. His eyes focused and his face relaxed as their eyes met. Then, a wrinkle appeared between his brow and his fingers jittered on his lap.

     She didn’t know what to make of him. He was on edge, a man who seemed barely contained, yet he remained seated like a dog that had been commanded to sit. She closed her eyes for a second and leaned back but like every previous time she had done so, she saw the flash out of a gun’s muzzle and heard the echo of its discharge. Her eyes snapped open and she almost fell out of her chair.

     “Are you alright, Love?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

     Molly choked back a lump and willed tears away. She knew they were both trying to help but their attention made her feel worse somehow. She didn’t want to be looked upon like she was a hummingbird struggling in the wind.

     “I am coping, thank-you.”

     “Are you hungry at all?” Mrs. Hudson asked with a couple of blinks.

     Molly shook her head. “Not particularly.”

     The elderly woman sighed. “No, I don’t imagine you are, poor thing. What a question to ask. Do you need anything else? I have this lovely prescription for Dalmane if you need something to help you sleep.”

     Sherlock grunted. “Flurazepam? That explains a few things.”

     “Hush!” Mrs. Hudson scolded. “I only use it occasionally.

     Molly felt a smile tug her lips. This is what she needed. Normal.

     “I’ll pass on the sedatives,” she murmured.

     Mrs. Hudson shrugged. “Suit yourself. Well, I’ll run along then. Try to get some rest, dear.”

     “I will, thanks.”

     Mrs. Hudson gathered her tray and headed for the door. She paused.

     “Are you sure you don’t want any pills?”

     “Erm, no, Mrs. H, I don’t like to take drugs.”

     “I meant for him,” she jerked her head at Sherlock. “He can be an awful nuisance.”

     Sherlock stood up from his chair and stalked to the door. He threw it open and gestured for Mrs. Hudson to exit as Molly suppressed another grin.

     “Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson. Sweet dreams,” he said in clipped tones. “That is, if you have any.”

     She shook her head. “Goodnight, Sherlock. Be a good lad and behave, hmm?”

     Sherlock snorted. “Hmph.”

     Molly heard an alert from her phone then. Her eyes went sideways to the table where it lay. She dreaded picking it up. Paula had still been alive when she had left the hospital.

     “Do you want me to check it?”

     She looked down. “Would you?”

     Molly kept her eyes downcast. She cringed when she heard Sherlock’s quick intake of breath. She braced herself for what she thought was inevitable.

     “Oh, God,” she whispered as she looked up at him. “Lie to me, please.”

     He squatted to his knees. His eyes met hers squarely. “She is alive.”

     Molly covered her mouth. Tears erupted from her eyes, hot and painful in their release.

     “Are you serious?”

     He turned the screen in her direction. She took it from his hands with trembling fingers. Paula was alive, in an induced coma but alive and with about as good a prospects as one could hope. She quickly scanned the email. The bullet from the small caliber handgun had traversed an almost perfect path by ricocheting off the inside of her skull and out the back through relatively quiet areas and the damage was restricted to her right lobe. If she survived the next few days, she would most likely live. Molly swallowed. It remained to be seen what kind of life she would have, but Paul lived. She wiped away tears of relief.

     “I can’t believe it. I-I thought she was gone.”

     Sherlock squeezed her hand. “No doubt your quick actions prevented her death.”

     Molly set the phone down. “I didn’t do anything. It was the fantastic staff at Bart’s. I am privileged to work there.”

     His eyes flashed. “The privilege is theirs.”


	11. The diversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT ALERT!
> 
> Like, majorly descriptive as I tend to be. If you can't picture yourself there, I ain't doing it right. However, don't get too comfortable because WINTER, *ahem* I mean, TROUBLE IS COMING! Enjoy their cohesion while you can ;)

       _“Molly Hooper?”_

_“Yes? Who’s asking?”_

_Bang!_

Molly nearly levitated from the bed as she sat up. Her hands flew to her head. For the past few days, she’d had the same dream every night. The ‘what if’ dream. What if she’d answered the mysterious gunman? In each dream, she was shot, she could feel the bullet boring into her brain and she knew she was dying. Every time it was the same, except at the end when she laid on the pavement and watched the assailant fade away. Each time the person was different. Once it had been Moriarty, another time her ex-fiancé Tom and this latest round, Janine.

     Perhaps that was progress, Janine was far less frightening than Moriarty. Even if she was infinitely more irritating.

     “Nightmare?” A deep voice rumbled out of the dark.

     Molly looked in Sherlock’s direction. He was shrouded, a shadowed shape occupying a chair in the corner of the room.

     “It’s fine,” Molly replied. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

     “Someone keeps thrashing around about the same time every night. I thought I would save myself the trouble of being roused by flailing limbs.”

     “Um, sorry.”

     “Don’t be,” he waved his hand. “It wouldn’t be an issue if you didn’t have a tendency to gravitate to my side and displace me.”

     She felt her face heat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

     He hesitated a moment before answering gruffly. “You are in much greater need of sleep than myself.”

     Molly chewed her lip. She reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. It didn’t have a very bright bulb and just barely cast enough light to make his eyes glitter against his pale skin.

     Dark brows drew together. “Do not concern yourself with me. You should rest.”

     She cleared her throat. She felt stuck in limbo these past few days. Every morning she was escorted to her job by a pair of burly, Brummie brothers who had to be from another planet because she couldn’t understand half of what they said. Then she methodically went through her work day trying not to picture herself as one of the corpses on her table as the agents, Leem and Fil (their mother had a spelling problem), argued over football. The brothers were a welcome diversion at times, both of them were Godawfully good-looking and their discourse was hilarious but she couldn't shake the constant feeling of dread. At lunch, she would visit Paula who continued to fight for her life but hadn’t made much progress otherwise. At the end of her day, Molly rode in a large black sedan, which reminded her of something out of a funeral procession, back to Baker Street where she spent the evening alone until Sherlock showed up. It hardly made sense to play girlfriend and boyfriend anymore when, besides a brief account she relayed to him about what she recalled about the shooting, they hadn’t really spoken. Then there were the nightmares to look forward to during her attempts at slumber.

     She took a deep breath. Something had to give.

      “I keep having the same bad dream,” her voice quavered. “Though, instead of Paula, it’s me. Over and over, it’s me but I don’t have the same fortune as she did and I die. I need something else to think about, Sherlock. I need a distraction.”

     He stilled in the corner. “What kind of distraction?”

     Molly flipped back the covers. She had skipped the second outfit and gone straight to her new satin tank and boy-short ensemble minus any underwear. She gingerly hopped out of bed and stretched. Goose bumps sprung up as her top lifted and cool air fanned over her tummy. She felt her nipples tighten as well which tingled as the slippery fabric brushed over them. It was the chill, she told herself, not the absolutely stormy look on Sherlock’s face as he took in the sight of her with next to nothing on.

     She sauntered by him. “Well, you think about it. I’m going to use the loo. Be right back.”

     Once out in the hall, she clutched her churning stomach and sprinted to the bathroom. She had never, never been so bold with a man in her life. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Skin flushed and very pink. Hair a tad messy. Eyes wide with apprehension. She danced back and forth on her toes. What was she doing? She had just thrown down a massive, garish, jewel encrusted gauntlet. There was no way he mistook her challenge.

     She splashed a bit of water against her skin, brushed her hair and gargled a bit of mouthwash. She even sniffed her armpits and checked the smoothness of her legs which she had shaved earlier. There was nothing that should turn him off. Well, unless it was something she had no control over, like the size of her breasts.

    She bit her lip as she appraised their modest appearance. They actually looked quite nice, she thought. They were small enough that they didn’t droop and her nipples were perky and inviting outlined beneath the flimsy top. Her confidence faltered though. What if he rebuffed her advance? What if she returned to the bedroom and he had left? She would die and it would be much more painful burning up from humiliation than getting shot in the head.

     Molly cracked the door open and peered down the hall. She steeled her nerves with a long intake of air and padded back to Sherlock’s room.

     He was gone.

     Molly laid a hand over her chest as her heart twisted painfully in her chest. She was about to hiccup when his voice, low and deep reverberated behind her.

     “You are surprisingly hasty in the bathroom.”

     Molly turned to face him in his pajamas and dressing gown. He had an unreadable expression of stone in the weak light. She reached up and started fiddling with her hair. She had pretty much spent all the boldness she had with her suggestion that he distract her. She had no idea what to do next.

     She laughed timidly. “I –ah- I thought you had left.”

     His lids dropped lazily as his eyes skimmed down her form. “Apologies, I had to retrieve something.”

     “O-oh. What?”

     He crooked a brow. His pupils expanded and contracted in an instant. His lips parted just before he replied.

     “Protection.”

     Molly curled her toes. Her stomach tightened. Goosebumps washed over her like a tide. Never had such a practical, pragmatic word sounded so drench-your-knickers sexy. A swarm of Monarch butterflies took flight in her gut.

     “So, the question becomes,” Sherlock murmured as he moved towards her, “what is the best way to take your mind off things?”

     She stared up at him. Her eyes were so wide, they felt parched. She clenched and dampness gather between her legs in anticipation.

     “I don’t know. It’s a bit blank at the moment, actually.”

     He smiled in a way that was devastating to her equilibrium. “Hmm, you make this too easy for me, Molly Hooper. I think we need to raise your expectations.”

     She couldn’t help it. He terrified her in such a thrilling way. She paced back against the bed as he stepped closer. He smirked, shuffled out of his dressing gown and draped it across the side table. Then, his long, graceful fingers worked their way down the buttons of his night shirt, exposing his lean torso as he went. Molly’s fingers twitched. He was too slow. When he got to the last button, she gathered her courage and stepped up to him. She sucked in a breath, raised her head and pushed the garment off his shoulders.

     Damn, he really was a work of art. His skin was pale and smooth, and he looked like something painstakingly formed by God himself (if there were such a being), yet he was all hard angles and taut sinew under flesh. He was so utterly and coarsely male. Tentatively, she touched his heated skin and let out a little sigh as she swept her fingers over his chest with its light dusting of hair, and down over his ribs to his waist. His breath hitched. She looked up into black pupils surrounded by just a thin strip of green. His nostrils flared.

     Then his hands were on her as well, clutching her to his frame where her breasts pushed up against him. He smoothed them up the sides of her thighs, over her bum to just the top of her posterior where they held her possessively. He dropped his head until their lips were but a whisper apart.

     “I’m supposed to be distracting you, remember?” He grumbled.

     “Yes, and you are doing a fan-fucking-tastic job . . . more, please,” she said breathily.

     Sherlock nudged her with his once with his lips, then again and then came down forcefully and hot. Fingers dug into her flesh and he kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough. She opened her mouth immediately and licked along his lips. He made a growling sound and responded in kind.

     She wanted more, so much more as their skin stuck together and their mouths wrestled. Her hands lowered to his bottoms and snuck underneath his waistband where she savored the feel of his perfectly rounded arse. His hand moved from her waist to her shirt where he hooked it with his thumbs, skimmed it up over head and tossed it aside.

     She felt a pulse between her legs as the air first stimulated her nipples and then his chest hairs tickled their peaks. He dipped his chin and looked down at her mostly naked form. The flesh she had felt stir between them was now straining, rock hard and pressing against her insistently through his clothing. Her tummy quivered as she contemplated the length of him from her hip to belly button.

     “Molly, I have said some blasphemous untruths about the size of your breasts,” he whispered hoarsely. “Can you forgive me?”

     She nodded as the reality of what they were doing seeped into her brain. Sherlock Holmes was hot for her, they were all but naked and about to engage in very naughty behavior. She felt something skitter along her spine. This was it, there was no going back from here. It was either the beginning or the end for them.

     A moment of fear gripped her chest and she almost couldn’t breathe. “I can forgive you for that, Sherlock. I can almost forgive you for anything, you know?”

     His hands temporarily lightened on her skin. His eyes shadowed for a moment.

     “Yes, I do. Molly . . .”

     She kissed him quickly. “No, don’t respond. I would rather not engage in hate sex with you right now.”

     He laughed. “Fair enough.”

     He ran his tongue over his teeth. His eyes constricted. He held her gaze as his fingers tugged at her shorts. He then slunk down and kissed her belly and her hip as he removed them. She sunk her hands into his decadently soft hair as he lingered below. He cupped her bottom as he brushed his lips down over her thigh. A shudder went through the length of her as once again, she flushed between her legs.

     Her head fell back. “Mmph, Sherlock, I’m dying here.”

     “Patience, Molly. I’m trying not to rush things. You are not making this easy.”

      He stood and picked her up before laying her out along the bed. He stretched out beside her and kissed her shoulder as his hand travelled the length of her body and parted her thighs. Her breath caught as he rubbed his palm over her sex.

     “God, that feels so good,” she moaned

     His breaths were hot against her neck as he buried his face there. She parted legs with a sigh and gripped his shoulder as he slid his finger into her wet warmth. Again, she vibrated from head to toe. He groaned. His cock twitched against her leg.

     “I had plans which you are thoroughly disrupting,” he rasped. “Every time I touch you, I feel like I am going to burst.”

      She huffed between ragged breaths. “Oh, screw your plans! Ack, take your bottoms off now!”

     His teeth dragged gently over her collarbone as he acquiesced with a sound that rattled his chest. He flipped away from her for a second. Then returned, sans pants, and dragged her under his heavy frame. She gulped as his large erection seared her belly. He closed his eyes and ground himself against her. She felt every ridge and ripple of him along her sensitive flesh.

     He panted. “Molly, I have a condom but . . . Christ, my head keeps shouting at me that I’m insane but I don’t want to put it on. I want to feel everything about you.”

     Oh, her insides went all squidgy. She was such a wicked girl. She had been thinking exactly the same thing, that is, what it would be like to feel his flesh sliding against hers. She gulped.

     “Um, well, I am on the pill, I-I guess,” she whispered.

 _“Terrible! Terrible idea,_ ” her conscience screamed as she wriggled beneath him, _“but . . . yaaas!”_

     His eyes flared and he shook his head. “We can’t both be insensible. Just say the word . . .”

     “Um, yeah, if either of us had any better judgment we would not be in this position in the first place.”

      He raised himself up on an elbow and gazed down with such a tender expression, her heart melted. His hands framed her face for a few seconds. A curl fell over his brow. Yes, she was insatiably horny at that moment, but she also realized right then that she loved him. Like, not the hopeless infantile infatuation she’d suffered through the past few years, but the kind of love that could crush a person with its weight. She ached to tell him.

     “Sherlock . . .”

     His head descended and his mouth pressed against hers quickly. She felt his hips lift for a moment and then, something large and very hard nudge between her legs. Her head fell back with a gasp as his head penetrated and pushed into her body.

     “Unh, oh, dear God.”

     She almost couldn’t bear it as he inched inwards. She felt filled, stretched to the point just before pain, and knew she was ruined for anyone else for the rest of her life. To be invaded this way by him was to be claimed. She tilted her hips and opened her legs wider. The more she had of him, the more she wanted.

     “Molly!” He grumbled.

     She cried out as he plunged to her depths with a curse. She almost felt split open as his hips slammed into hers. He paused for a moment and kissed her gently.

     “Are you alright?”

     She nodded as her body adjusted to his size. She took a shaky breath. Sherlock had her pinned to the bed and she’d been impaled by his impossibly hard cock. She gripped him with her inner walls as the first knot of tension formed in her belly. She could almost come right then. He brushed his lips against her jaw and began to move, slowly dragging out of her at first, only to ease back inside. Her hands trailed down his muscular back to his bum. The pressure built as she felt him flex beneath her hands. Over and over he moved within her, ratcheting up the taut strain on her nerves. It was oh-so, mouth-wateringly good.

     “Umm,” she sighed.

     With each glide, the ache between her thighs increased until she was bent against and clinging to him, wholly focused on that delectable friction and greedy to find her release. His thrusts came quicker, harder then and the bed shook underneath them. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he breathed heavily into her collar. He shifted his hips, changed his angle and in a few quick strokes, her legs were shaking. She held her breath as the whirling vortex that was her impending orgasm started flying apart. One more plunge and a pulse ripped through her sex.  She jerked against him as involuntary spasms radiated out from her clit and made her clench and unclench along his length.

     “God, Molly . . .”

     He penetrated her a couple more times then pulled out of her. She felt his cock twitch and something warm and liquid spill out across her belly. His lips found hers briefly as his body convulsed with his release. Then he collapsed to the side of her, panting heavily.

     “S-sorry,” he rasped. “Give me a second and I’ll get you a towel.”

     Molly nodded. Normally, being covered with seed would be a bit icky but she felt owned by him. He’d thoroughly plundered her body, his scent clung to her and evidence of his pleasure slicked her tummy. When he returned with a damp hand towel and cleaned her, her face burned.

     “Stop,” he murmured as he tossed the towel in the laundry basket in the corner.

     Molly chewed her lip. “Hmm?”

     He slid into bed and pulled her against him. She felt him kiss the top of her head.

     “Stop overthinking it,” he said.

     “I-I’m not.”

     “Mm, hmm.”

     But he was right. She had got exactly what she wanted, the mother of all distractions, but instead of soothing away her fears, she was more terrified than she’d ever been in her life.


	12. The rival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone tires of inhabiting the shadows (not really her natural inclination).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you know my style by now. Sure, I'd love for them to ride off into the sunset but I think they're finding dusk a little elusive. It's summer in the arctic after all!

Molly sighed and snuggled closer to the warm, solid mass next to her. Her face brushed something slightly bristly. A hand slid over her bare hip. Her eyes flew open and then widened. It was still very early in the morning. The sun’s rays were just starting to lighten the sky outside but she could see everything in glorious detail.

     _“Oh.”_

     She licked her lips.

     _“My.”_

     Blinked.

_“God.”_

     Her heart palpitated. Sherlock snoozed mere inches from her face. His face was breathtaking but even in his sleep, he looked as if he were deducing. His dark brows were pulled together ever so slightly, his full lips pursed and his eyes pinched a bit. She sniffed and held her breath as his lips moved.

     “Stop looking at me that way,” he murmured.

     Molly sucked in her cheeks nervously. “Wh-what? What way?”

     “Like you like me.”

     One green eye opened, little shots of yellow and gold speckled his iris. In one quick movement, he rolled on top of her and pinned her down. His leg slid down hers and nudged her thighs apart. His hips settled between hers heavily. She felt the stirring of his member and drew in a sharp breath.

     “B-but I do like you,” she whispered.

     Sherlock stared down at her as if trying to sort something out as he rested on his elbows. His eyelids fluttered and his lip tweaked at the corner. She felt his fingers work their way under her neck and swirl the hair at the back of her head. His head descended slowly, his eyes engaged by her lips. Then, he brushed over them tentatively. She followed and chased after his mouth as he tilted his chin up. She groaned, frustrated by the tease.

     He kissed the corner of her lips quickly and pulled up before she could kiss him back. A smiled played across his lips.

     She sputtered a sigh. “Why are you tormenting me?”

     He grinned, his eyes flashed mischievously. “Because it’s fun.”

     The sharp rap of clapping sounded from across the room then. Molly tensed and gripped Sherlock’s sides as he stiffened.

     “This is so precious,” a familiar, husky female voice declared. “I don’t think I ever would have believed unless I witnessed it myself, and here it is, remarkable.”

     Sherlock flipped off Molly. She scrambled back, drawing the linens up to her chin as she gaped at her new friend Irene residing in the very same chair Sherlock had occupied the previous evening. Molly’s mind spun in confusion. It made no sense at all that she was there. Sherlock snatched his dressing gown from the bedside table and donned it in an instant. He jumped up from the bed.

     “Of all the mornings for you make an appearance,” he spat at Irene as he tied his belt.

     Irene smirked, winked at Molly and smoothed her hands over her floral print sundress. Molly shook her head and flinched at the miniature poppies pattern, if she never saw poppies again, it would be too soon. She looked at Sherlock as his familiarity with Irene registered.

     She felt a plummeting sensation in her stomach. “W-wait, you know Irene?”

     Sherlock pressed his lips in a grim line as he looked at Irene with a warning. Irene twitched her brows twice.

     “Oh, yes, he _knows_ me. I dare say, he knows me very well.”

      He scoffed. “And from the sounds of it, you’ve introduced yourself to Molly?”

      Molly gawped at Sherlock as he stood between her and Irene. If he had any more room, she knew he would be pacing. She swallowed thickly as his eyes darted away. What was that caught-in-the-cookie-jar look for?

      “Oh, it was completely innocent, Love,” Irene assured him. “We met while she was shopping for some nightwear.”

     “Innocent, I’m sure. You had a hand in her selections, no doubt?” He exhaled noisily as he glanced quickly at Molly. “No doubt at all.”

     Molly’s face flushed and blazed. She felt humiliation saturate every cell in her body. Even her toes flamed. She looked down for a moment as she bunched the bed coverings in her fists. Of course Sherlock knew the glamorous and poised Irene. She was exactly the kind of woman he should attract. She was so many things Molly was not such as confident, well-dressed, cunning and devious.

     _“ . . ._ _I've been trying to get the attention of a particular gent for some time and I'm hoping this might do."_

Molly thought about her interactions with Irene. They had all been a set up, but why? Was she some half-mad, jealous ex? There mere thought made Molly’s tummy churn.

     “Why did you lie to me?” Molly asked, her voice felt very thin.

     “It was necessary . . .”

     “I didn’t really . . .”

     Molly’s eyes flew back and forth between Sherlock and Irene who both answered at the same time. She had meant the question for Irene. Why had Sherlock answered? He cursed and jammed a hand through his mussed hair. Betrayal punched her in the gut and a sudden lack or air burned her lungs. Sherlock dropped his chin and glared at Irene.

     “You need to leave, now,” his voice was a deadly quiet.

     Irene pouted. “Oh, but you two looked like you were having such fun. I thought I might join you.”

     “You are not welcome at present,” Sherlock shouted.

     Irene’s eyes narrowed as she uncrossed her legs and rose to her feet. “Now what a thing to say. Tsk, tsk, I expected open arms, Mr. Holmes. Really, this after I returned your favor?”

     Sherlock went very still. “Did you now?”

     Irene looked uncertain for a moment. Her eyes flicked down just before she lifted her chin.

     “I th-thought you would appreciate the gesture. Especially given our history.”

      Molly cut in then, tired of being superfluous. “What history? Who is she to you, Sherlock? Why do I feel like I’m witnessing some lover’s quarrel?”

     She didn’t really want to know the answer to her question. Her heart felt like a hot carafe about to be dipped into cool water. There was too much familiarity, no, _intimacy_ was a better word, between them.

     Molly gathered a sheet around herself. She stood up when silence stretched between them. “Then I’ll draw my own conclusions. I mean, it seems like you’ve been expecting her and I’m just in the way. . .”

     Her voice faded. She looked critically at Sherlock as a myriad of little details fell into place. His face was completely shuttered save for a slight spasm at the corner of his mouth and the swift wrinkling of his nose. A tremor moved through her limbs. He had needed a faux girlfriend. Someone who knew he had zero interest in a relationship with them. Molly had to move in with him because he didn’t know how closely he was being watched. Molly had to sleep in his bed. They had to look as if touching each other was normal, second nature enough to fool . . . possibly, an amateur expert on these sorts of things? Molly felt a fracturing in her chest.

     “Why am I here, Sherlock? Is it to make,” Molly pointed in Irene’s direction as the pitch of her voice grew ever higher, “ _her_ jealous or something?”

     Irene smiled like a large cat revealing its teeth. “She’s not bad at deductions, Sherlock. I thought you said she was simple.”

     A cold wave washed over Molly’s skin. Pain burst through her heart like being repeatedly stabbed in the chest by a rusty screwdriver.

     Sherlock looked quickly to her with a scowl. “I said no such a thing . . .”

     Molly choked back a lump in her throat. She knew his word play too well. Maybe he hadn’t said exactly the word “simple” but it had probably been something close. Whatever he may have said, it wasn’t his words that were the problem. It was that he ever discussed her with Irene at all. She sucked in a shuddering breath. Had they had a laugh at her expense sometime in the past? She wanted to throw up.

     She pulled her sheet tightly around her and attempted to wriggle by Sherlock. He caught her free wrist.

     “You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

     “Get your hands off me,” she hissed.

     His eyes contracted as he tugged her closer to him. “If you don’t remain where you are, I will reclaim my sheet.”

     Molly gritted her teeth. “You wouldn’t dare.”

     He stepped on the corner of the fabric and raised a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”

     Molly clutched at her covering. She would drop it right then if it were only Sherlock to witness her degradation.

     “Go ahead, Molly. I wouldn’t mind,” Irene said in a sing-song voice.

     Sherlock’s head snapped in her direction. “You have ten seconds to evacuate this apartment. I will deal with you later.”

     “Or what?”

     “Or I will call Mycroft and tell him you’re back on English soil.”

     She frowned. “You wouldn’t . . .”

     Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Is there a goddamned echo in here? The answer in the same. Now get out before I drag you out.”

     Irene huffed and jauntily stormed from the room. Molly listened with apprehension as her heels clicked angrily through the flat to the front door where she slammed it loudly. Molly tried to shake off Sherlock’s hold once silence fell over the apartment. His hand tightened on her wrist.

     “Why didn’t you tell me about your new friend?”

     Molly glared up at him and shook her head. “It was none of your business.”

     His cheek twitched. He was a bit frightening to behold right then. She had seen that look on his face only a few times before, times when he was confused or thrown off his game. His eyes kept flexing and shifting as if trying to catch focus and he was angry, incredibly angry.

     “Really, Molly. Have I not given you enough warning about strangers? An attempt was made on your life yet it didn’t occur to you to tell me of this new development. What is wrong with you? Are you . . .”

     “What?” She spat out. “Simple?”

     He snorted a breath. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You wouldn’t even know where to start.”

     Molly struggled with him then. “Let go of me you son of a bitch!”

     She tried to wrench free but the more she fought, the more she ended up tangled with him. In the course of only a few breaths, she found herself pinned on the bed again with her wrists held firmly above her bed. There was no use in fighting but she twisted beneath him all the same. It was either fight or fall apart. 

     “B-bastard! I-I hate you,” she cried.

     Sherlock’s deep voice shook her whole body. “Yes, I am a bastard and I’ve no doubt you will find someone later to regale with your piteous tale of how I used you but I would advise more caution with whom you confide.”

     His words cut through her like a knife. She went slack beneath him. A cry bubbled up in her chest. Her vision began to swim.

     “Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t waste your sorrow on me.”

     Molly closed her eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks.

     “Don’t, Molly. Christ!”

     Then, she felt his lips seek hers desperately. His hands let go of her wrists and his thumbs were on her cheeks, stroking them gently. She was heartbroken, angry, but kissed him back anyways because, well, Sherlock was her addiction. He could sap her veins, sallow her skin, and rot her flesh but she would still crawl back for more. She hated herself for that. As she moved her lips greedily against his, a rumble vibrated from him through her chest and he deepened the kiss. She was so incredibly confused. He wanted her but he'd used her?  Finally, sense washed over her and she turned her head sideways. A sob sputtered from her lips. Sherlock drew back as if scorched. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly and pushed himself off the bed. His lips parted, twitched but eventually clamped shut as he decided against what he was going to say. With several blinks and one last shake of his head, he left.


	13. The foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene's arrival is just the quick and unexpected recession of the sea level. Maybe it's time to get off the beach!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I hope I'm doing the mystery part here justice. This guy should creep you out but who is he? Do we know him already or is he new? Hmm . . .

     “Get in the car.”

     Irene hastened her steps and pushed her sunglasses up. Of course he would be here to witness her defeat. She turned her nose up in the air and kept walking.

     “I don’t take orders,” she said with a huff.

     The car screeched to a halt and one of the two gargoyles permanently attached to the hip of her stalker exited the large, white Mercedes and stepped in her path. The rear door swung open. A voice, low and menacing drifted to her ears like the hiss of a serpent.

     “Oh, yesss, I forgot. You give them, hmm?” He said with a laugh. “How is that working out for you?”

     Irene’s hands trembled. She wished she had something from her old collection, even a pocket-sized snake whip would feel like some measure of defense.

     She attempted to speak in an even tone. “I’m not up for a discussion right now.”

     He did not alter the volume of his voice. She found he never needed to do that. With just the right inflection, he could make her quiver in her heels.

     “Joseph, persuade her, please.”

     Joseph, definitely the larger of his companions, grinned like a crocodile. The man disgusted her which wasn’t easy to do anymore after everything she had seen. He licked his large, rubbery looking tongue over the single, gold fang that permanently poked over his bottom lip. He rubbed a hand across his rotund, bald head which was shiny from sweat and then stepped towards her wagging crooked brows at her suggestively.

     “It would be my pleasure,” he replied.

     Irene held up her hand. “S-stop. I am persuaded.”

     His lips turned down in a frown. “Come on now, you like to fight ‘ahm told. I like a little resistance.”

     She gripped the strap of her bag. Her eyes glanced quickly to the yawning cavern of the back seat where she knew a partition separated it from the front. She wasn’t sure if joining the occupant in the rear of the car would be the lesser of two evils but she slid inside anyways to escape the repugnant Joseph. Fear won out over revulsion by the barest sliver.

     The door slammed once she was in and the locks clicked closed like the cocking of guns. The car lurched forward and rolled away from the curb. She stared down at her hands a moment as it picked up speed before she gathered enough courage to look at her fellow passenger.

     He was impeccably well dressed as usual. It was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the first place because he had reminded her so much of Sherlock. However, her patron preferred lighter colors and the cut of his suits were always very forward the point he was well ahead of the latest trends. This day he wore a Havana style hat, a slim fitting suit the shade of rain clouds, and a loose, cream silk shirt. He puffed on a slim, stainless steel e-cigarette. Its fake smoke vapor curled around the brim of his hat but disappeared quickly in contrast to real smoke. Irene wrinkled her nose. He preferred the flavor of black licorice for some ungodly reason. Its sickly sweet smell prickled the inside of her nose.

     “You lack patience,” he murmured without lifting his head.

     He sounded too calm. She could only see the bottom half of his face. A muscle flecked in his jaw. He was definitely not happy.

     She laughed lightly. “It’s a virtue, isn’t it? I’m short on those.”

     He ignored her quip and took a puff of his artificial cigarette again. It wheezed like a harmonica that had lost its reeds. He pulled it from his lips and flicked it once.

     “Hmm, I still do that from time to time,” he observed after a pause. “Even though there’s no ashes. I understand habits, Irene. I empathize. They are hard to break.”

     She nodded. His grey suit was beginning to remind her of a storm. She tried not to flinch as his free hand glided over her knee and patted it once.

     “But I am disappointed in you all the same,” his voice took on a gravelly rasp. “I thought you had more discipline.”

     She crossed her ankles together. “I am just trying to provide you with the information you seek. I thought I would accelerate the process.”

      His hand flicked back the edge of her skirt and compressed on her bare knee. His fingers dug into her flesh. She gasped as he pinched a nerve and a stinging sensation radiated up her leg.

     “You are an implement,” he adjusted his hold.

     Irene cried out as the pain intensified.

     “You are an accessory.”

     She tried to jerk her leg away but he held fast.

     “You are not essential. Do not make yourself burdensome.”

     The intensity of the pain made her eyes water. “Please, let go of me.”

     Pallid grey eyes the color of sun-baked concrete regarded her dispassionately from underneath the brim of his hat. His grip eased. His gaze relaxed and skimmed to her knee for a moment. He rubbed her flesh gingerly and then lifted his fingers.

    “It’s alright. It won’t bruise. Your flesh, that is. How about elsewhere? Did I leave a mark?”

     Irene sniffed and looked away. She heard him recline and take another puff of his vapor.

     “What do you want me to do?” She asked, her voice unsteady.

     He let out a long exhale. “Perform as intended. I made a deposit based on your promises, though I am beginning to question my investment. It seems you may already be obsolete. I do not want to add dysfunctional to your description.”

     The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “You underestimate me . . .”

     He shook his head once. “Mm, no. If anything, I overestimated your value but be assured, I’m quite miserly. I’ll find a way to make my returns.”

     Irene’s blood boiled as she glared at his sharp profile. He was such an arrogant prick, but not in the endearing kind of way she liked. She wished she had never aligned herself with him.

     “And what of the rest of the payment I was assured? Will you deliver?”

      He laughed. The trailing ends of it were ragged and drawn out. The sound of his mirth chilled her like draft from a freezer.

     “If you do so first, my pet.”

     He removed his hat and brushed a hand over his closely cropped dark hair.

     “But I’ll have no more deviation from the script, understand?” He gave her a hard stare. “Do what you are told.”

     Try as she might, she could not quell her rebellious nature. She was tired of his bullying.

     “Or what? Torture me? Kill me? Many have tried. All have failed. Do not make the mistake of thinking you can control me.”

     He didn’t react; just took another drag. “So mundane. None of those things truly frighten you, do they? No, I need only expose you, Irene, or rather . . . Auguste. What do you think?”

     Irene stiffened in her seat and clutched her purse. Her limbs numbed as her breathing became shallower. One grey eye flickered as he regarded her sideways. He enjoyed shattering her illusions. She could tell by the faint curl of amusement at the corners of his lips. She tried not to shake but there was no stopping the cold crystallization of terror which gripped her insides.

     He chuckled. “Better yet, what would Mr. Holmes think?”

                       *   *   *

     “This is not the way to Barts,” Molly said with a frown as she gazed out the window.

     “Oy, sorry, Dr. Molly, we wuz just asked ta bring you by the boss’ for a tick,” Leem replied as he looked over his shoulder from the front seat.

     She furrowed her brow. “You mean Mycroft’s office?”

     Fil grinned apologetically in the rear view mirror. “Yup, ‘e found out you were movin’ back ‘ome. Wants ta talk to ya.”

     She sighed. “Is there no escaping them?”

     “I sympathize wit chya! ‘E’d be a right git to ‘ave as a brother ‘n law!” Leem declared.

     Molly’s face heated. “We are not related, by marriage or otherwise!”

     Both brothers raised their brows and then gave each other a wide-eyed look. She tucked in her bottom lip and crossed her arms. The two men muttered something between them and the car sped up then. Several twists and turns later, they skidded to a stop outside a drab government building. Leem and Fil exited the vehicle first and went through their security checks before allowing Molly to depart. She disliked the whole production. Every time they stopped somewhere, curious bystanders would pause and wait for whomever it was to disembark. When she emerged, their faces inevitably fell because she was not a celebrity nor anyone else of significance.

     With her head down, she followed her escorts into the building. Once inside the elevator, she counted as the floors ticked by. Ten stories later, she was led into Mycroft’s office. It was not at all what she expected. She felt as if she stepped into the pages of an Ikea catalog. Mycroft looked out of place behind the minimalistic white quartz-topped desk with its polished chrome legs.

     Mycroft huffed a breath when he saw her. He must have read the expression on her face.

      “Does no one like the new scheme?” He asked.

     Molly shrugged. “Erm, no offense, Mr. Holmes. It’s not really you.”

     He sighed and picked up his phone. He swiped across the screen a couple times and then double tapped it. He gestured for her to sit down. Before she could get comfortable in the boxy chair, the office door opened and Mycroft’s assistant strolled in.

     “Yes, Boss?”

     “Anthea, how soon can you return my office to its former state?”

     Molly glanced at Anthea. She appeared to try to suppress a smile but ended up smirking anyways.

     “Funnily enough, your old furnishings are just next door. How does tomorrow sound?”

     His eyes narrowed at his assistant. “I thought they would be long gone by now.”

     “They were, um, delayed, Boss,” she said with a smile.

     He tugged at his vest. “Hmph.”

     Anthea made a move to leave but paused. “Ah, need anything else?”

     Mycroft looked at Molly. “Dr. Hooper? A refreshment?”

     “No, thanks,” she murmured. “I’m tardy for work, actually. Could we talk about whatever it is you wanted to talk about so I can go do my job?”

     Mycroft nodded to Anthea. “Thank-you, leave us.”

     Molly watched Anthea exit the room. Molly would hate to have her job. It was bad enough having a Holmes thinking he could run roughshod over her without being contractually obligated to submit to his whims.

     “I hear you had a falling out with my little brother.”

     Molly shifted in her chair uncomfortably. “That would imply we had a ‘falling-in’.”

     Mycroft raised a brow. “I was quite under the impression you had indeed, fallen, Dr. Hooper.”

     She looked away. She disliked the laser precision of the Holmes when it came to thought deduction sometimes.

     “Well, in any event, I’m really not concerned with . . . whatever it is you two have going on emotionally,” he scrunched his nose and shuddered. “No, I understand from my security team that you are planning to return to your own residence. This after you had an unexpected visitor in the early morning hours. Who stopped by, Doctor?”

     Molly held her breath a moment. She was beyond mad at Sherlock but didn’t feel comfortable confiding in his older brother.

     She furrowed her brow. “Why can’t you ask Sherlock?”

     Mycroft wagged his chin in exasperation. “Because he will lie to me.”

     “And I won’t?”

     He gave her an, _‘are you joking?’_ look.

     Molly bit her lip. “I plead the fifth.”

     Mycroft rolled his eyes. “This is England, Dr. Hooper, and you’re not on trial. I will find out, you know. I was just hoping that this was a more efficient method. By the way, I wouldn’t bother with any loyalty to my brother. He’s hardly been loyal to you.”

     Molly's breath faltered. He may as well have punched her in the belly. Her shoulders slumped. 

     “You two have a way with your words, don’t you?” She whispered hoarsely. “Why don’t you inflict them on each other? Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

     Molly rose to her feet shakily. She couldn’t even look at the man. She turned to go.

     “Was it Irene Adler?” Mycroft asked before she reached the door.

     His words halted her in her tracks.

     “It was, wasn’t it?” He muttered with a hum.

     Molly turned back. “I didn’t tell you that.”

     “Don’t fret. I had an inkling she was back. What did she want? Do sit down, Doctor. I’ll get you to Bart’s straight away once we’re finished.”

     She returned to the uncomfortable chair and clasped her hands together. “I-I don’t know what she wanted. She’s playing some sort of game.”

     He rubbed his chin. “Yes, that’s her style.”

     “Who is she? I mean, how does Sherlock know her?”

     Mycroft took a breath. “He met her during an investigation several years ago. Don’t ask what he was investigating because I won’t tell you. Suffice to say, she captured his interest and since then, they’ve had a bit of a thing.”

     Molly’s stomach twisted in a knot. “When you say captured his interest . . .”

     He folded his hands together on the desktop and leaned forward. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, Dr. Hooper.”

     She was crushed. Like, full-on, tomato under a sledge, crushed.

     “But why? What’s so special about her?”

     Molly groaned inwardly at her own insipidness. She sounded so pathetic.

    “Oh, nothing in my books, but she did outsmart Sherlock and that impressed him, I think. She’s probably the only female to ever do so,” Mycroft explained and then laughed. “And you always remember your first, don’t you?”


	14. The champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, is Molly on the losing side or does she have an advantage?

     

     “False alarm, then?”

     Mary nodded with a wince as she swung her legs over the side of the hospital bed. Molly reached out to grab her hand. The very pregnant woman groaned as her full weight settled on her feet.

     “Yes,” she sighed. “Oh, God, this feels like it will never end.”

     Molly glanced at the door. “I gather they’re sending you home. Where did John go?”

     Mary smiled. “I sent him to get the car. He and Sherlock were driving me insane. You know, the way those two carry on sometimes . . . yeesh, I feel like a surrogate.”

     At first Molly laughed but then anxiousness made her tummy quiver.

     “Sherlock’s here too, is he?” She asked.

     Mary’s lips puckered into an ‘oh’. “Um, yes, sorry. You two are having a spat, hmm?”

     Molly averted her face. She reached for Mary’s jacket and helped her into it, avoiding eye contact.

     “We’re not having an anything. I don’t know what Sherlock has told you. We weren’t, um, together, right? He needed my help with something. I provided it as always and now I’m of no more use.”

     She drew in a shaky breath. Mary turned and cocked her head to the side with eyes that were a little wide, brows raised ever so slightly and lips drawn in a bit. Molly nearly buckled under her searching gaze.

     “You sound so sad. I hate that.”

     Molly tried to dismiss the remark with jerk of her shoulders but her supposed-to-be-breezy laugh sounded more like a wheeze.

     “I’m not sad. I’m fine.”

      “Says every broken-hearted woman ever,” Mary replied with a ‘tsk’ tacked on the end. “That bloody ass-muncher, he’s going to get an earful.”

     Molly clicked her teeth together and raised her head. She didn’t need anyone coming to her rescue.

     “Don’t. Mary, I will be fine. I’m not so pathetic, you know. Everyone thinks it, but I’m not. I-I know I st-stutter sometimes and say ridiculous things and I am t-too nice to people who d-don’t deserve it but that doesn’t make me weak or stupid or,” she brushed a tear from her eye, “. . . or s-simple.”

     Mary grasped her arms and gave her a little shake. “For what it’s worth, Dr. Molly Hooper, I have never thought that about you. God, one of the highlights of my life was watching you smack some sense into Sherlock. You don't know what I'd give to have been there when you punched him in the nose.”

     Molly felt her face heat. “Who told you I did that?”

     Mary arched a brow and grinned with glee. “A person can’t just sucker punch Sherlock Holmes. He knows how to fight. The only way someone could bloody his nose was for him to let it happen. Since I know John didn’t do it, there’s just one other person in the world he’d let pop him like that.”

     Molly scoffed and wrinkled her nose. “It’s not like that. I surprised him.”

     Mary fluttered her eyelids and nudged her with an elbow.  “I bet you did. Sooo, are you going to tell me what happened?”

     “No.”

     “Hmm, you’re no fun.”

     Molly chewed her lip a second. “Well, it’s not a fun story. Um, Mary i-if you’re not having this baby right now and you’re alright, would you mind if I left before they returned? I don’t really want to see him right now, or maybe ever. I dunno. I just can’t, with him, you know?”

     Mary dipped her head. “Yeah, okay Molly, you don’t have to explain. I understand.”

     Molly squeezed her hand and turned to leave the small room. Just before she reached the door, she remembered something. She whirled and faced Mary again quickly.

     “Um, yeah, before I forget, I have a file to give him with some notes on a case he was working on that he was too busy to do himself. Would you tell him I’ll leave it in my desk downstairs in the second drawer for whenever he gets around to it? I’m taking some time off starting after my shift today so he’ll have to wait until I get back if he wants to ask any questions, n-not that I expect any.”

     Mary looked up as she stepped into her shoes. “Ooh, a case. Anything interesting?”

     “Erm, yes, I think so although, he hasn’t asked about it again so I don’t know how much of a priority it is for him. He’s got bigger things to worry about, I guess,” she said cynically. “Yeah, but tell him I think his Mr. Ralston was murdered. He sure as heck didn’t die from Yellow Fever.”

     Mary’s face drained of color and she started coughing. Her steps faltered and she stumbled. Molly felt a frission of dread ripple through her and rushed to her side before she toppled over.

     “Mary?” She queried. “Mary, are you alright?”

     Mary shook her head and clutched her hand. “I-I need to sit down.”

     Molly helped her to a chair opposite of the bed and crouched in front of her. “What is it? What did I say?”

     Mary’s eyes brimmed with tears. She swallowed.

     “Was the man named Anthony Ralston?” She whispered.

     Molly’s lips parted. “Y-yes, oh, Jesus. Did you know him?”

     Mary grimaced sadly. She started fanning her face with her hand as her eyes took on a sheen.

     “He was my father.”

     Molly felt her pain like a punch to the gut. “Oh, shit. Oh, shitty-shit, Mary. I’m so sorry. What a way to find out but . . . um, I thought your parents were killed together in a car accident. Am I remembering that incorrectly? Crap! Why did I think that?”

     Mary turned sad, guilt ridden eyes in her direction. Her voice vibrated.

     “You’re trustworthy, right? Sherlock always said that you were incorruptible.”

     Molly pursed her lips. “I doubt he was praising me, Mary . . .”

     “No, he said you were the only person in the world he could rely upon to keep a secret. That’s high praise Molly. The highest.”

     Molly dropped her chin and looked up at Mary with a shake of her head. Mary meant well but her words made Molly's heart ache. She didn't want to delude herself anymore by trying to find any meaning in Sherlock's possible compliments. He said as much bad, more so, than good. She was in the red over his words, and no amount of hearsay would get her into the black.

     “Never mind what he said. Whatever you tell me will remain between us.”

     Mary wrung her hands for a moment as her eyes darted around. Then, she leaned forward with a quivering chin.

     “I’m not who I say I am. I used to be a very bad person. Someone you would not like very much, Molly. I clawed my way out of that mess and thought I left it behind but I don’t know anymore because someone has been reaching out to me anonymously. Now, I’m about to have this baby, this precious responsibility, and I’m terrified for her safety. Do you think someone murdered my father? Truly?”

     Molly took a deep breath and let it out. She couldn’t lie. “Yes.”

     A tear splashed down Mary’s face. “And Sherlock just passed this off to you?”

     Molly shook her head quickly, “He didn’t know about that part, maybe he suspected, I don’t know. I’m sure he hasn’t abandoned your case.”

     “But he’s left it on the back burner. I-I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

     Molly tapped her fingers on her knees. She wanted to help Mary. She wanted to help herself. Maybe there was a way to do both.

     “Mary . . . I know I’m no great consulting detective or anything but I think I can find out more about your father.”

     Mary blinked several times. “Y-you do?”

     “Sure, I have some ideas. Maybe I could provide you with some answers. Of course, it would help if I knew more.”

     Mary stared at Molly a moment. Molly could see her internal struggle plainly on her face as various emotions surfaced and skittered away. Finally, her face set and she seemed to make a decision.

     “Only Sherlock knows what I’m about to tell you, Molly,” she whispered. “but he’s used to this sort of thing. Are you sure you want to be burdened with this knowledge?”

     "If it will lighten yours, I'm happy to hear it."

     Molly touched her hand. Whoever Mary was, she wasn’t bad, and Molly felt it wasn’t for her to judge anyways.

                        *   *   *

     "Trying to sneak away?"

     Molly's back straightened as the sound of Sherlock's voice reverberated down the hospital corridor. She stopped for a moment but then jerked one foot forward, then another, and continued away from him. She heard his footfalls hasten. She could feel him reach for her and spun to the side to escape. When her eyes fell on him, his hand was already dropping and he had a deep furrow between his brows. She stood just out of his reach with her fingers twitching at her sides.

     "What do you want, Sherlock?" She asked.

     He squinted down at her as if confused. He lifted his chin against his upturned collar. His lips parted but nothing came out. Molly crossed her arms.

     "Well?"

     "You're mad," he said at last.

     She felt her face twist in confusion. "No, this is my fucking happy-to-see-you face, can't you tell?"

     He rubbed his lips together. "No, I mean . . . you're not sad."

     She blinked at him several times under scrunched brows, then huffed and started back down the hall.

     "Molly . . ."

     She waved her hand over her shoulder. "I'm not a cryptographer, Sherlock Holmes. I don't have the time or energy to figure your Sherlynese out."

     He caught up and stepped in front of her so quickly that she slammed into him. She brought her hands up and shoved him as hard as she could but it was she who ended up stumbling backwards. Again he reached for her but curled his fingers into his palm instead and let his hand fall.

     "What? What is it? Spit it out!" She cried.

     He clenched his jaw a moment. His eyes darted back and forth. Words formed but didn't drop from his lips. He gave his head a shake.

     "I-I still need you," he ground out, then cursed and rolled his eyes aside.

     He looked down and fussed with his jacket. He muttered something else to himself of which she just caught the end.

     ". . . utterly ridiculous."

     Molly poked him hard in the chest as her eyelid flickered. She was spitting mad.

     "Well, figure something else out for your schemes because you are not allowed to need me anymore. I am not yours to pick up and drop."

     His hand clasped around her wrist. Then his eyes snapped to hers and she felt a burst of firecrackers in her belly. For the most fleeting of moments, she was pulled against him and it was like coming home. She cursed her disloyal body for wanting to suck onto him like an amorous squid.

     "You. Are. Wrong, Molly Hooper," he murmured in a way she felt down to the ends of her toes. "I've had you. You are mine even if your mind has yet to reconcile that fact."

     Then, he released his hold and disappeared down the hall, swallowed by the brightness of daylight streaming in from outside. 

     

     

     

      

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this is shockingly lacking in smut . . . for now . . .


	15. The exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly has something to prove, I think. Mycroft eats a little humble pie. The story marches forward.

 

     “Dr. Hooper, you are making yourself a nuisance.”

     Molly’s mouth gaped as she gazed upon Mycroft and half the British government in her flat.

     “Hallo, Boss!” Leem said as he and his brother pushed by her. “What’s all this?”

     “Clean up,” he muttered in return.     

     Well, half the government was probably an exaggeration, but it was strange to see so many people in her small apartment at once. Mycroft, his assistant Anthea, an additional pair of security-types and a gaggle of others in the process of disrobing from protective suits crowded her living room.

     “I am a nuisance?” She repeated.

     Her eyes stung from forgetting to blink.

     “Mm, yes,” Mycroft answered.

     Her gawk fell upon some plastic containers that were liberally wrapped in tape. “What is that?”

     Mycroft raised his brows and glanced down. His bottom lip jutted out.

     “Oh, don’t worry, just a death trap but it’s perfectly harmless now.”

     Molly let her bag slink to the floor. “N-now?”

     Mycroft glanced at Anthea. She nodded her head in Molly’s direction.

     “You should probably tell her.”

     “Really? Yes, I suppose. Well, Dr. Hooper, like I said you’re becoming a bit of a nuisance. Someone wants to kill you and we’re expending an incredible amount of energy trying to prevent it. My second security team alerted me to an intruder in your flat today . . .”

     “Intruder?” She looked around wildly.

     A second security team? Her heart raced.

     “Oh my God! Toby! Oh, where is he?”

     Mycroft frowned and dipped his head towards Anthea. “Who’s Toby?”

     She looked up from her phone. “The cat.”

     Mycroft’s nose wrinkled. “Ah, well, your cat is fine. He’s currently in the spare bedroom where he can’t cause any more trouble. Dr. Hooper, I just told you someone has tried to murder you for a second time in a week and your first thought was for your cat?”

     Molly blinked at him in confusion as she realized Toby was safe. Her heart rate slowed its erratic hammering.

     “Yes, h-haven’t you ever had a pet?” She asked.

     His lips turned down as he waved his hand around. “No, that was more Sherlock’s thing.”

     She held her breath a moment. What a silly question to ask. Of course Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t understand her love for her little feline, pretty much her only friend in the world. 

     “Toby was trouble?” She asked anxiously, hoping they hadn’t been mean to him.

      Anthea smirked and suppressed a laugh.

     Mycroft’s face reddened as he inadvertently glanced to his pant leg. “Um, well, he’s rather an ardent creature.”

     Molly watched Anthea nearly double over as a sputter of a laugh escaped her lips. She tried to cover it up with a cough.

      “E-Excuse me,” she gasped. “Is it alright if I use your loo?”

     Molly nodded. She looked back to Mycroft after his assistant had left the room.

     “What did this intruder leave? A booby trap, you said?” Molly asked as she fumbled her way to her couch and sat down.

      She leaned forward and rested  her forehead on her hand as Mycroft sauntered over and then sat down in a chair opposite. The situation was absurd, she thought as she watched the technicians packing up their gear. Her protectors, Leem and Fil, disappeared into her kitchen (probably to clean her out of food again). Mycroft glared after the brothers.

     “Don’t eat anything in there, you fools! Weren’t you listening?”

     Fil stuck his large head around the corner. “You don’t think the food’s safe then?”

     Mycroft rubbed a hand over his face. “Lord, deliver me.”

      Molly’s thoughts spun. Why would anyone go to so much trouble to kill her, especially a second time?

     “Mr. Holmes, the device?” She prodded.

      Mycroft laid his umbrella across his lap and looked up. “Ah, yes, it was quite an ingenious device, actually, meant to release Hydrogen Sulphide gas in your bathroom. You know what I’m talking about, hmm?”

      “A p-poisonous gas, by product of the decomposition of organic matter, commonly found in sewers . . .”

      Mycroft’s brows twitched. “The device was moisture activated so having a shower, something you usually do after work I imagine, would have set it off. It’s a very clever apparatus complete with a sensor to trigger a short resulting in a heated wire that would have melted a hole in a plastic bag and voila, two relatively inert compounds would have mixed and made the gas. Hmm, Sherlock would have loved this. Too bad.”

     “He doesn’t know?”

     “No and we’re not going to tell him.”

     Molly’s lips fell open. “We’re not?”

     Mycroft turned the umbrella slowly with one hand while he supported it with his other palm. He shook his head and then stood up and paced. He was so much like Sherlock, it made her a little sad as well as miss him.

     “Dr. Hooper, my little brother has some . . . fascination . . . for you and I indulge him. I’m not sure why I do. Guilt or something maybe, but frankly, his demands are eating a hole in my operating budget. If he hears about this latest debacle, there will be no satisfying him. Not to mention, you have completely diverted him from his mission to find out who’s behind Moriarty’s so-called return. He’s been utterly useless since you two . . . got together.”

     Molly knew by how hot her face felt, she had gone three shades of red.

      “W-we weren’t really boyfriend and girlfriend, though. It was faked, Mr. Holmes, so I don’t think I’m the problem,” she said sadly.

     He blinked at her slowly as he stopped and tapped his umbrella down. “Tell me, Dr. Hooper, in your medical opinion, is it physically possible to “fake” everything you two did?”

     Time stopped for a moment as his words spilled out. Over Mycroft’s shoulder, Leem and Fil each looked up from a bag of crisps and stilled. Anthea rounded the corner and froze much like everyone else within earshot. Molly rose from her couch. Her palm twitched. She wanted to hit him so badly but instead, wrenched his umbrella from his hands and stalked to the window at the far end of her living room. Before he could figure out her plan, she stuck the umbrella outside, opened it and let a gust blow it away.

     “M-my umbrella!” He sputtered and looked at Anthea with horror. “Did you see what she did?”

     “I did. Do you want me to send someone to retrieve it?”

     Molly shook her head. “If that umbrella comes back in here, I’ll stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, Mr. Holmes.”

     “I wouldn’t take that threat lightly, Boss,” Leem grumbled. “I might just help her.”

     “Me too,” Fill chimed in. “I’d say an apology’s in order.”

     Mycroft’s eyes widened. He fussed with his blazer. Then, his face turned pink as something appeared to dawn on him.

     “I am sorry, Dr. Hooper,” he ran a hand through his hair and collapsed back onto his seat. “No, I mean it, I do. Sometimes, it takes others to point out our follies. I have said some abominable things to you recently and they have been undeserved.”

     Molly returned to her couch. His apology had taken her off guard and she didn’t know what to say.

     “I hate to make excuses," he sighed "but things have been pressing on me lately. I worry about my little brother. He’s my Redbeard, you know, well, you don’t know. Although, you might be his if I think about it. Suffice to say, I would . . . not be the same without him. Forgive me? Please. I have not been a gentleman. What can I do to make it up to you?”

     A thought danced through her mind. “Well, maybe you can do me a little favor and I can solve both our problems, at least temporarily.”

     His brow shot up and he sat straighter. “Yes, Dr. Hooper. What is it?”

     “I want to travel. I need to make a couple of stops.”

     He nodded quickly. “Will a private jet suffice?”

     “Erm, yes. Also, I would like to take the boys with me for safety.”

     He smiled. “A foregone conclusion.”

     Molly took a deep breath. “I need a body exhumed in Canada.”

     Mycroft laughed. “Is that all?”

     “Won’t that be difficult?” She asked.

     His face twisted in amusement. “Oh, I don’t think so. The Prime Minister is a huge hockey fan. He asked me to help fix an Olympic Gold Medal match once and he thinks I actually managed it, even though I didn’t really do anything. It’s not like they needed my help. In any event, he thinks he’s in my debt. A phone call ought to do it.”

     Molly pressed her lips together.

     “Is that the extent of it, Dr. Hooper? That’s considerably more than a little favor.”

     She rolled her eyes towards him. “And I’m more than a little pissed off. This ought to square us up.”

     He folded his hands together. “My, my. You’re not entirely what you seem, Molly Hooper.”

     She huffed a breath. “Is anyone?”


	16. The overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly prepares to set off but has some business to attend to, someone, and I'm not going to say who, is trying to make that difficult.

 

     “I’m going away for a bit, Paula,” Molly murmured as she stroked the unconscious woman’s hand, “so if you don’t see me, I want you to know I haven’t forgotten about you.”

     Nothing changed. Paula continued to breathe in and out at a steady pace. Her heart monitor thrummed along steadily. Molly swallowed. She looked around. The doctor in her couldn’t help herself and used her thumb to gently lift the comatose woman's lid. Paula’s pupil expanded in the light. Molly felt a little flutter in her tummy. That was a good sign.

     A tear prickled her eye. At least there was some indication of brain activity and thus a sliver of hope. When her father had gone into the hospital for the last time, she had done the same thing in the days before his death but his stare had been vacant and his once warm brown eyes murky. That was the day she grieved for him, the day he had become an empty shell. She hoped she would never have to do that for Paula.

     Molly had not really known Paula before the night of the shooting but since then, looked upon her as a reflection of herself. They were a lot alike, in fact. their similarities were kind of uncanny. Paula, like her, lived alone with a cat (that had been taken in by a neighbor) and seemed to be in short supply of friends and family. She was a similar height and weight with nearly the same brown hair and eyes. It was no wonder with the way she had answered the gunman on that darkened street that she had been mistaken for Molly.

     “I hope to see some progress when I return,” she brushed her hair from her face, grateful for her sake they hadn’t shaved it all off. “I will be thinking about you. When you wake up I will be here to help. You saved my life, Paula. That has made you my friend forever . . . if you’ll have me.”

      With one last squeeze of her hand, Molly then finally let go. She checked the time on her phone. It was well past seven pm and she had a lot to do before she flew out the next day. She gathered her things and stood up. Just as she did, the door at her back rattled. She whirled around. It jolted on its hinges again which shot a pang of fear through her abdomen. Behind the door, there was some sort of commotion rife with the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum, the grunts and murmurs of voices, and several thumps and bangs. She balled her fists and looked around frantically. She was too many floors up to escape out a window and she had nowhere to hide.

     “Molly!” A muffled voice called through the door.

     The fear dulled somewhat. The source was someone she knew only too well. She pushed open the door and peered into the hall. Sherlock had Fil pinned to the floor with his knee on the back of his neck and an arm twisted up from the floor. However, Leem had the detective in a choke hold and was trying to pull him off his brother.

     “Let go of me or I’ll break his arm,” Sherlock rasped.

     “Let go of ‘im or I’ll break ya neck,” Leem returned.

     Molly let the door to slam closed. The hallway walls shook. Fil stopped flailing, Sherlock looked sideways at her and Leem froze.

     “Oh, for God’s sake,” she exclaimed. “What the hell is going on here?”

     Sherlock blinked several times. “I was, ahem, I was t-testing your guards.”

      Molly crossed her arms and looked down over him. He might have incapacitated Fil, but he was losing the fight because Leem had the advantage over him.

     “And?”

     He swallowed and tried to move his head. Leem jerked at his neck and tightened his hold.

     “They are adequate,” Sherlock choked out. “Can you call this one off?”

     Molly rolled her eyes. “Promise to behave?”

     He squinted as he thought about it. His lips twitched.

     “Well?” She prompted.

     Leem squeezed his neck. Sherlock finally loosened his hold on Fil and let him go. Leem hauled him up and then pushed him away with a huff and tended to his brother. Fil shrugged off his help and lumbered to his feet.

     Sherlock fixed his scarf and dusted off his Belstaff. His eyes were on Fil.

     “Next time, don’t drop your shoulder,” he lifted his chin. “It gives you away.”

     “I did that on purpose,” Fil grumbled. “We ain’t fresh recruits, ya twat. We’s MI6 trained agents wit the ‘ighest clearances. We work as a team. It was my turn to take the fall.”

     Sherlock narrowed his eyes again. “Indeed . . .”

     Molly let out a noisy breath. “Um, alright, let’s dial back the testosterone, all of you. What do you want, Sherlock?”

     He turned slowly to Molly. He glanced one more time over his shoulders at the boys.

     “May we speak in private?”

     She arched a brow. Sherlock’s nostrils enlarged as he exhaled. He poked his lips out briefly.

     “Um, pleeease?”

     Molly looked around. “You want to talk here?”

     “No, I was hoping we could go to Baker Street.  I am not comfortable discussing things with you anywhere else. There are eyes and ears everywhere.”

     Molly started to wag her head in refusal but Sherlock stepped forward.

     “It is imperative we speak . . .”

     Leem and Fil moved to intercept.

     “If Dr. Molly doesn’t want to go wit ya, she ain’t going,” Leem growled.

     Sherlock glowered at the pair. “You two are only here at my request! One phone call and I’ll have you permanently reassigned as fecal remediation specialists for the palace Yorkies.”

     Fil folded his arms and laughed then winked at his brother. “Go ahead, make the call. You might've got us dispatched to start but we’s sworn to protect the Doctor now and that’s whut we’s going to do. Besides, it’s outta yer ‘ands, I’d wager. So do yer worst.”

     Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “My worst? Oh, I don’t think you want that. How about my bare minimum? How about I tell Mycroft about your fling with that Serbian girl who turned out to be a Russian double agent which you didn’t figure out until after she, erm, pumped you for state secrets? Or you, Leem, how long do you think you’ll remain employed after I reveal you are more than a little in love with Anthea?”

     Both brothers’ eyes went round. Molly grabbed his arm.

     “Leave them be. It’s alright, boys. Let’s go and talk and get this over with, Sherlock.”

     Fil scuffed at the floor with his foot. “Well, I’ll go bring the car ‘round, I guess.”

     “I don’t need either of you to tag along,” Sherlock spat.

     “We don’ give two shits ‘bout you. What do you want, Dr. Molly?”

     She sighed and threw her hands up in the air. “To be free of this headache for ten minutes. Can any of you do that?”

     Three sets of eyes went back and forth among them. Leem and Fil shrugged. Sherlock smoothed his hair back into place as his gaze skittered sideways.

     Molly sighed. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

                *   *   *

     Baker Street. Up until a couple of weeks previous, it had been a place of fascination and a testament to the mysteries of Sherlock. As she stepped through the doors that evening, it was so much more- a place where she had felt at home and where she’d lost her heart but also had it broken. As she looked around, the faint smell of flowers drifted to her nose. She shouldn't have stepped foot in the place. Every moment she was in danger, not mortal danger, she was emotionally imperiled. She had left herself there and her memories of the place inhabited every corner of the flat like ghosts.

     “I figured out your little trick,” he murmured as he reached past her and hung up his jacket.

     “What trick?” She replied.

      _"Resist, resist, resist ,"_ She begged herself.

     He stared at her a moment. His eyes flicked over her face.

     “Filomena’s Paradise Massage Oil.”

     Molly covered her mouth with her hand.

    “What I haven’t figured out,” he muttered, “is how to clean the back of the rad without removing it from the wall.”

     She rubbed her lips together to stop herself from smiling. “It’ll go away eventually, I think.”

     “Mm hmm. Come in, sit down.”

     Molly ditched her bag and coat by the door and found her way into what used to be John’s old chair. Sherlock sat in his chair, folded his hands together and settled his gaze on her. There was something so odd in his eyes. Behind his intense expression, uncertainty lurked. She tilted her head to one side.

     “What did you want to talk to me about?”

     She could do this, she thought. She could sit there impassively and take everything in stride. Recovering from his maltreatment should be second nature by then. This wasn't any different.

     She almost rolled her eyes at herself. Instead, they darted in the direction of his bedroom. One mystery had been demystified slightly, she knew what it was like to be with him physically, and so yeah, she was suddenly very aware that she was kidding herself. She was never going to be able to recover. A blister of pain made her heart ache. After this she had to stop indulging him (and herself for that matter) because, this hurt too much.

     "So?" She swallowed thickly.

     His eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. “I have need of a girlfriend.”

     Molly’s fingers danced on her lap. She felt a cold wave wash over her body. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

     “Are you kidding me right now? We’ve been over this fake girlfriend nonsense already. I’m not interested in playing that part anymore.”

     “You misunderstand,” he said slowly, his deep voice sent chills through every molecule in her body. “These last few days have given me some perspective. I have no more use of a faux girlfriend. I want a . . . real girlfriend.”

     He looked askance a moment. Then he turned his pale green eyes on her with pupils larger than she had ever seen them, and pinned her with his gaze.

     “Molly, I want you.”


	17. The progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby steps for both of them. Is Sherlock for real? Well, probably not 100% but it's closer to the truth than he'd probably admit.

_“Molly, I want you.”_

She couldn’t tamp down the sensations causing her insides to go all spongy as she repeated what he said in her head. It was like something out of her fantasy  _‘_ things-she-wished-Sherlock-would-say’ reel. Still, she trusted him about as far as she could throw him. Since she couldn’t even pick him up, that wasn’t very far.

     She wrinkled her nose and half-shook her head. “Wha-at? Sherlock Holmes, if this is what I think it is, I am going to . . .”

     Sherlock tapped his hands on his chair. He seemed full of energy, like he could rocket up at any moment and have a fiddle playing contest with the devil (and win) or find the boys and get into another tussle (and also win), or do both. Molly took several deep breaths to calm her nerves but his anxiousness was too much to handle. She made a move to rise.

      “Please, Molly. Hear me out. I-I don’t know any other way to do this.”

     She sat back down, dumbfounded. Was that vulnerability in his voice? She blinked at him and stared. She felt like their stations should be reversed. Fascinating.

     She sat back. “You have five minutes.”

     He clasped his fingers together under his nose for a moment then inhaled a deep breath. His eyes constricted and went a bit out of focus as if he were staring right through her. His voice was oddly flat and monotone to begin as if trying to disconnect himself from his words.

     “I am not entirely unaware that my behavior towards you lately has been . . .”

     They spoke at the same time.

     “Shitty?”

     “. . . regretful.”

     His eyes flicked over her face. His head went back a little as his eyes widened. He cleared his throat.

     “Erm, yes, well, I don’t have excuses. When I enlisted you in my plans, I did not anticipate a certain complication.”

     “You mean, Irene?” She asked caustically.

     His eye flinched.

     “No, not Irene, although, she is that. No I did not anticipate my developing,” he scrunched his nose and made a face, “ahem, feelings . . . for you.”

     Molly’s mouth dropped open. Suddenly, it was as if someone had turned the volume way up. There was a crackling of static in her ears. Her own breaths sounded like gusts of wind in her ears.

     Her stutter returned as fierce as ever. “F-f-feelings? F-for m-me?”

     His face was unreadable. She squeezed her eyes closed a moment before opening them again. She wasn’t hallucinating. He was still there.

     “Wh-what kind of f-feelings?”

     He took a sharp intake of breath. His response was rapid-fire.

     “Do you want really me to run through the list? Fondness, attachment, disorientation, aggravation, affection, jealousy, possessiveness, anxiety, frustration, elation, curiosity, desire,” he paused a moment before looking at her with intense concentration, “lust.”

     Her heart was beating a mile a minute. The look on his face made her tremble. Oh Lord, she thought, he wasn’t putting her on.

     “Say something, I am currently experiencing the least welcome of them all, insecurity.”

     Molly’s face was numb. How does one reply to such a confession?

     “Are you serious? Because, if this is a joke . . .”

     He groaned. “I am not attempting to be humorous. There is nothing funny about this. You have made me impotent.”

     Molly twitched her brows. “Impotent?”

     He frowned and then she saw something she had never seen in her life, Sherlock Holmes go red in the face.

     “Um, n-no. Not that at all, quite the opposite in fact. Poor choice of word. Oh, for God’s sake, this is absurd.”

     He jumped to his feet. His hands danced as he whirled around as if looking for something to expend his energy on. He picked up his violin and then set it down. He opened a book and fanned the pages from one side to the other. Molly felt a smile tug at her lips.

     “You like me?” She asked.

     He peeked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Yes.”

     “You want to be my boyfriend?”

     “Yes, in fact, I need for you to . . . be . . . mine. God, why is this so difficult? It’s so straightforward.”

     Molly shook her head. “Um, yeah, it’s so not. Sherlock, my mind is blown, really. I am flabbergasted but I don’t know what you want me to do. It’s not so easy to forget everything that’s happened.”

     He turned and looked at her with apprehension. “As I always remember everything in far too vivid detail, I can appreciate your circumspection.”

     She wrung her hands. He was adorable, really. His hair hadn’t been tamed since his encounter with the boys. He was missing a button from the middle of his dark blue shirt, the colour of which skewed his eyes in that direction as well. His face kept ticking as if he couldn’t decide what to think.  Yup, adorable. Not something she ever would have described him as previously. She wanted to believe him but an awkward uncertainty remained. She loved this man but she didn’t trust him.

     “Alright,” she murmured.

     He stepped in front of her chair. “Alright? Alright, what?”

     She looked up at him. “Alright, I’ll bite, but I don’t know if I’m going to swallow this yet, Sherlock. You lied to me.”

     “No!” She pointed a finger at him as he opened his mouth. “No, you did. A lie of omission is still a lie and you hurt me. I asked you not to but you did anyways.”

     He crouched down with his lips pressed firmly together. His eyes flitted back and forth as he thought.

     “What can I do?”

     “You can explain a couple of things.”

     He made a face. She narrowed her eyes.

     “See, don’t start with that, Sherlock. You are going to need to prove yourself to me. I’m not moving back in here and jumping into bed with you.”

     He pursed his lips. “Well, you don’t have to move back in but can’t we negotiate on the bed part?”

     She pushed at his shoulder. “Don’t be an arrogant prick, right now. I am just starting like you a little bit again.”

    He caught her wrist and pulled her down off the chair to kneel on the floor with him. Forget Monarchs, she had Queen Alexandra Birdwing butterflies wreaking havoc on her tummy as his eyes searched her face. She chewed her lip. He let go of her wrist, reached up with his thumb and brushed her it from between her teeth. Yikes, the shivers. There was a war going on between her mind, her heart and her body.

     “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to distract me,” she whispered.

     His lip jerked. “It’s not working?”

     “Not well enough.”

     He shifted forwards on his knees. “What if I kissed you?”

     She licked her lips, instantly giving herself away. Damn! He closed the space between them and did just exactly that. His lips caught hers but he didn’t grab hold of her with his hand. Their only point of contact were their mouths but that was enough to completely overrun her senses and of course, he never did anything half-assed. His mouth moved against hers like he was insatiably hungry. He leaned forward to more fully engage her lips and she felt herself go off balance. She clutched at his shoulders the same time he relented and gathered her up against his frame by pressing one large hand over the small of her back. His other hand dove into her hair and cupped the back of her head. She felt his fingers intertwine with her tresses and massage the back of her scalp. She bent herself against him in return and wriggled closer.

     He moaned. She felt his ache as acutely as her own. His mouth opened and his liquid-hot tongue slipped between her lips. Her hormones raged. Her body already knew what this led to and a flush coursed her entire system in preparation. Heat, tightening, wetness gathered between her legs.

     _“The floor, the floor, the floor!”_ Her wicked little internal demon panted.

     Molly gripped his shoulders and then pulled her head back. “Hu-uh, no, not like this.”

     _“What? Are you seeerious? Aaaaaaaaaaag!”_ Her demon screeched.

     Sherlock’s hold loosened. His fingers slid from her hair down the side of her neck.

     “Molly . . .”

     “No, Sherlock. You can’t just kiss me and expect everything to go back to normal. It’s not enough to just say things anymore. You have to prove you mean it.”

     His breaths were like her own, ragged and erratic. He took a few more in an apparent effort to calm himself.

     His fingers feathered across her collar. “How do I do that? I’m not good with these things.”

     Molly shrugged and looked down a moment before meeting his eyes again. “I don’t know. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. If you can’t figure it out, then I guess it’s not possible.”

     His brows drew together. “You can’t say something like that. Cryptic and fatalistic is my thing.”

     She laughed. “Tell you what, I’ll give you some time. I’m going away for a bit.”

     His eyes darkened in confusion. “What?”

     “I’m going on vacation to B-Barbados,” she looked away, suddenly uncomfortable having to lie to him. “I need time away. You need time. We’ll talk when I get back.”

     His fingers flexed on her back. “I don’t need time. I know what I want.”

     Molly touched his face. “But I don’t. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I have to decide what I can accept from you. I know the status quo isn’t enough, not anymore. I-I mean, I let you do it your way but that doesn’t work for me. So, I’m going to go soak up some sun, get as far away from England and whomever tried to blow my head off and think for a bit. I’ll let you know if I figure it out. In the meantime, you think about what you’re willing to do differently or not. Whatever.”

     Sherlock released her and sat back on his heels. He looked at her, like really looked at her and furrowed his brow.

     “There’s nothing I can say right now to make you stay, is there?”

     “Not really.”

     Molly held her breath. That wasn’t entirely truthful. If he confessed his undying love and pledged to treat her like a queen for the rest of her days, she might consider it, or maybe not, that wouldn’t be her Sherlock.

_“Holy, crap.”_

      She bit the inside of her lip. Who was this crazy woman who inhabited her body? Sherlock Holmes had just asked her to be his girlfriend, for reals, and she had turned him down. A thought flashed her forward to the future and she saw a miserable old lady stroking a stuffed cat on her porch.

     _“You could've had him,”_ she cackled.

      _"Shut up, you, I can see your horns!"_ She replied in her mind.

     Molly hugged her arms about her middle. She hoped she wouldn't regret this.     


	18. The concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feeling the physical effects of dread.

     “A whole string of pearls. White, classic, boring,” Sherlock scratched at one of them as he talked to himself, “hmm, fake. Why has the message changed? What is the sender trying to say? Pearls . . . symbols of innocence, purity, a staple of a bride’s wedding day attire . . .”

     His eyes darted to Mary. “Except for you. You didn’t wear pearls when you married John.”

    Mary plucked a biscuit from the tray on the table next to her sofa. She nibbled at it and sighed in contentment.

     “Well, I’m hardly pure or innocent. They’re not really my style.”

     His eyes narrowed. “But everything else on your wedding day was traditional almost to the point of caricature. When I think about that event now, it seems like a whole day of theater as if you wanted to convince everyone of how normal you were, but why would you skip something so basic? Something your character would have fully embraced? Unless you have an emotional aversion to them . . .”

     Mary took an excessively large bite of her biscuit. She looked down for tick and then lifted her shoulders.

    “I dunno,” she mumbled as she chewed, “can’t say I thought about that. Anyways, I’m surprised you’re here at all. I thought my case bored you.”

     Sherlock frowned at Mary. “What? Possible CIA involvement, rare mystery gems, and keeping secrets from John. What could be more entertaining?”

     Mary shrugged. He sat forward and scanned her face. He felt his stomach drop as he read the clues in her expression and picked up on the vibration in her voice that bespoke of more than a disappointment in his lack of attention. She had done something.

     “Mary, what did you do?”

     She pointed her half-eaten biscuit at him. “It’s what you did, Sherlock, or maybe what you didn’t do.”

     He folded his hands together and strummed his fingers. He stretched his shoulders and rolled his head on his neck.

      “Why will no one give me a straight answer lately?” He huffed. “Explain. Now.”

     Her eyes pulsed with irritation. “How about you explain why you were having Molly look into my father’s death instead of doing it yourself?”

     “I didn’t tell her anything about you, if that’s what you are upset about,” he waved his hand before his head shot up. “W-wait, wait, wait! How did you find out she had his files?”

     “She inadvertently told me. She asked me on Friday when I had my false alarm to pass along a message about a ‘Mr. Ralston’s’ death to you. She wanted you to know that her findings would be in her desk.”

     He shook his head and then dipped his chin to one side. “I saw her Friday night. She didn’t say anything to me.”

     He felt his eyes burn as they went very large. He inhaled a breath that filled his lungs until they felt about to burst.

     “Why would she not say anything about that? Why do I think if I go look in her desk right now, there will not be anything there?”

     Mary’s eyes slid sideways. She picked up another biscuit with a trembling hand.

     “She had some ideas. She thought she could help.”

     Sherlock launched to his feet. His stomach turned over. He felt like he could wretch. He swallowed back a splash of acid that stung his throat. He lifted his hands to the sides to his head. He didn’t know whether to tear his own hair out or throw something across the room in frustration.

     “You told her about yourself,” he pressed his fingers to his temple and sucked another breath through his teeth. “W-w-why did you d-do that?”

     “Because I thought you had abandoned my case. I told you I was desperate, Sherlock, but I can barely get off the couch to pee let alone investigate this myself and Molly had figured out my father’s death was a murder from just three words in Spanish. She’s bloody brilliant.”

     Sherlock shook his hands in her direction with each syllable he uttered. He wanted to slap her plate of biscuits to the floor.

     “I know she’s brilliant,” he shouted. “Why do you think I had her looking at those files in the first place?

      He felt a weakening in his legs. He wobbled and crumpled into the nearest chair.

      “Christ! This is a d-disaster.”

     Mary rubbed her wrists. “I don’t understand. You said she was trustworthy and it’s my secret to tell to whom I choose. What would be the problem if she knew about me?”

     Sherlock looked at her with incredulity. “Because she is brilliant and determined and stubborn! None of those things would be an issue if she did not care so goddamned much. Mary, because she loves you, she will dig and dig continue to dig long past the point her fingers are bloody and broken. It is only a matter of time before she uncovers one of those adders you were so damned worried about. In fact, you might have just sent her into a viper's pit. God, do you know that someone tried to kill her last week?”

      He tried to stand but found that his stomach still churned. He gulped down another rise of bile and steadied himself by gripping the chair’s arm. Guilt rushed through him. This was all his doing and as angry as he wanted to be at Mary, he only had himself to blame. Fear made every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. She was out there somewhere asking questions with no idea how much danger she was in. He could pass out, he thought; just keel over from the way his brain seemed to be imploding.

     Mary crossed her arms over her belly. “I didn’t know that! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

     “Why indeed?” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to her belly as he fought to regain his breath. “Where is she and don’t tell me Barbados. I didn’t believe that for a second.”

     She glowered at him. “Canada.”

     He took a steadying breath. Canada, not so bad, it was still part of the Commonwealth.

     “O-or Colombia.”

     His mouth fell open. “Colombia? Colombia! You enlisted my Molly to investigate a murder in Colombia? What were you thinking?”

     “I didn’t enlist her to do anything. She insisted it was necessary.”

     “Why? What did she learn from those files?” He growled.

     “Well, she couldn’t be one hundred percent sure but she thought my father was poisoned. I don’t know what she wants to do in Columbia exactly. That part didn’t make a lot of sense. She kept trying to explain something about, ‘remembering your first’. I have to admit, I was getting worn out by our conversation at that point.”

     Sherlock plucked at his brow. “I assume, then, that your father was buried in Canada after being expatriated from Colombia. So, she went there to dig him up, no doubt. She would need help. She couldn’t just show up in a foreign country and demand for a 20-year-old corpse to be exhumed,” he snapped his fingers as the most obvious collaborator came to mind. “Aarg! Mycroft!”

      A dozen scenarios played out in his imagination. None of them good. Molly was in mortal peril, he was sure of it. At least in England, she had himself and Mycroft (however useless he was sometimes) as well as the secret service to watch out for her. What did she have in Canada or Colombia except a pair of overly sentimental brothers from Birmingham with the tendency to fall for any woman who gave them the time of day? He rubbed a hand over his face which felt clammy all of a sudden. That meant one or both of them were probably already half-way in love with the tiny pathologist. His stomach lurched. He was an idiot for letting them stay on as her protectors.

     Mary scrunched up her face. “Do you think your brother helped her? That would be good, wouldn't it?”

     “He doesn’t help, unless it benefits himself. No, he did the opposite of help. He enabled. Stupid fool! Or rather, I’m the fool to have trusted him to use his common sense. He better have enjoyed his little ruse. When I asked him about her travel plans, he told me he was going to have her flown to one of the British Territories like the Caymans or Anguilla instead of Barbados for safety.”

     Sherlock strode towards the door where he had hung his jacket. His stomach still felt weak and he was most likely going to throw up in a bin outside, but he needed to track down his pathologist.

     He clicked his teeth together as he whipped on his jacket. “Quickly now, Mary, is there anything else you wish to enlighten me about before I depart?”

     “No, go get your girl, Sherlock. I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic to see you.”


	19. The competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very last line in this should make your insides go all squidgy. Uh, oh!

 

“Morning all. This the examination? Who's in charge?”

     Molly held her hand out towards an attractive, young police officer who had just entered the area draped off for her examination in the ambulance bay. “Erm, Hi. I’m Dr. Molly Hooper. I will be examining the body.”

     The officer was no more than thirty and a welcome change to the aging Dr. Patel who had fallen asleep in a chair just on the other side of the plastic curtain. Not to mention, her grumpy escorts who were still recovering from the previous day’s flight and subsequent three-hour drive.

     “Hi. Constable Devon Richards, Hinton RCMP. Nice to meet you, Dr. Hooper. Thanks for waiting. I got hung up dealing with a roll-over up in Switzer Park.”

     He looked over at Leem and then Fil who were stationed either end of the shrouded area. “Ah, hello there.”

     They each nodded.

     “Leem.”

      “Fil.”

      Officer Richards raised his brows. “And you two are?”

      Fil crossed his arms. “Her technicians.”

     The officer whistled. “Riiight, okay then. Let’s get this party started.”      

      Molly smiled at him. There was something about a man in uniform and this one looked not only ready to do business but like he’d been out chasing bad guys already. His black uniform pants with a yellow stripe down the side were scuffed with dirt and he had a smear of grease on his (rather muscular) forearm. Over a short-sleeved grey button up shirt with all manner of patches on the shoulders, he wore a bullet-proof vest with a radio clipped to the front. Her eyes flicked anxiously to the hand gun holstered to his side for all to see. She wasn’t used to that. At least Leem and Fil kept theirs hidden.

     She relaxed as she looked up into his face though. His smile could melt butter. He had a slightly crooked grin, dimples and walnut-coloured brown eyes. His dark brown hair was cut very close in a military style. She suppressed a smile. Hot, slightly younger than herself, and very eager. This was a bonus.

     “So,” he prompted. “Are you ready? What do you need me to do? I mean, I was just told to observe and all but I can help if you like. I think Forensics are dope. I totally want to get into that one day. Like, right now, I’m cool doing the generic stuff but it gets boring writing traffic tickets and breaking up domestics.”

     Molly grinned and took a breath. “Well, I’m not sure yet. I might need some help with the top of the coffin as it looks a bit heavy, but you may want to hold your nose. There will be some foul gases that come out when we lift it.”

     “We can help you, Dr. Molly,” Fil muttered. “He don’t need ta get his hands dirty.”

     Officer Richards twitched his brows at her and held his hands up. “I don’t mind. I’ve dealt with some rank stuff. Ever smelt a week-old drowned moose?”

     Molly laughed. “I can’t say I have.”

     He stuck out his tongue as if retching. “Yeah, it’s not good.  By the way, I dig the accent. Where are you from?”

     She blushed. “England. London, actually.”

     “Big city girl, eh? What do you think about Hinton, Alberta?”

     She sighed wistfully. “It’s lovely. It’s so different. I mean, there are so many trees and so much space and things are so far apart. Those mountains are a tease, aren’t they? You keep driving towards them but never get there. They’re gorgeous.”

     He nodded and then gestured animatedly. “Hey, well, I can take you on a drive to Jasper. How long are you here for?”

     Both brothers stood up straighter. She tried not to laugh at the twin frowns on their faces.

     She chewed her lip. “Um, just until I finish my examination and sample collections. Tomorrow I’m back to Edmonton to use some of their equipment at the Royal Alexandra Hospital. Then I fly out the next day.”

     “Well, your exam won’t take all day, will it? I’m done my shift at 3 pm. We could go out to Jasper through the mountains tonight. It’s only an hour’s drive. They have some great restaurants there. We could grab some food and I could have you back by like 8 pm.”

     Molly swallowed. God, he wasn’t shy! She shook her head.

     “Um, ah, thank-you but . . .”

     His face fell. “What? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? I’m sorry, of course you do, my bad.”

     “Um, well, not exactly but . . .”

     The young constable perked up. “Come on, then! You can’t not see the park! You came all this way. I promise you'll see mountains, probably some big horned sheep and elk with racks so large you’ll wonder how they hold their heads up.”

     Molly couldn’t help getting sucked in by his enthusiasm even as guilt flushed her gut. It felt wrong to essentially go on a date with someone besides Sherlock. She looked at each of her protectors. Leem shifted his feet uncomfortably. Fil was about to jet steam from his ears and nostrils. Officer Richards glanced sideways at him with a smirk. Molly covered her mouth. He didn’t lack in confidence, that was apparent.

     “Um, you guys are welcome to come too, I suppose.”

     “Well, we’re kind of a package deal,” Molly said.

     Officer Richards turned his megawatt smile back in her direction. “Is that a yes then?”

     She pressed her lips together. “I suppose. Thanks.”

     What could it hurt? She’d traveled the European continent a bit, did a stint for Doctors Without Borders in Mali and vacationed once or twice in the Caribbean but had never been to Canada before. This might be her only chance to see what had been declared a World Heritage Site by Unesco.

     He clapped his hands together. “Awesome. Let’s do this thing and get the hell out of here!”

     “Should I wake Dr. Patel?” Molly asked.

     The officer peeked behind the plastic sheet. Dr. Patel’s head had flopped forward and his shoulders heaved as he snored.

     “Nope, he’s alright.”

     Molly chuckled, snapped on her gloves and set to work in the makeshift lab. The whole process was unusual and not entirely above board save for a member of the national police force and a medical professional invigilating her exam. Anthony Ralston had been exhumed in the middle of the night with little fanfare and would be re-interred that evening. If anyone noticed the goings on at the cemetery, they would be told there was a utility nearby that needed to be fixed and that the body had been inadvertently buried too close to it.

     When they finally pried the lid off the coffin, which was in surprisingly good shape after two decades in the ground, Molly was astonished to see a remarkably well-preserved body inside. So much so, that she had to stop for a moment to take a few breaths. The man, approximately 50 at the time of his death, looked reminiscent of Mary. 

     “Blimey!” Leem exclaimed when he looked in the coffin. “How long’s he been dead?”

     Molly shook her head. “Twenty years.”

     She turned away for a moment and calmed herself by writing a few notes. She gave her shoulders a little shake when she was finished. Then she went into analyst mode and put the man’s connection to her friend out of her mind.

                            *   *   *

     “Are you sure you don’t want to go for a drink?”

     Molly smiled at Devon. The young officer, five years younger than herself she’d learned, looked like a puppy anticipating a treat. If she wasn’t who she was, and didn’t love who she loved, she might just go for that drink. However, besides the fact that her feet were sore and she was knackered from a long day, he just wasn’t her type. Yes, he was buff and quite masculine and he looked bad-ass in a uniform, but he paled in comparison to Sherlock.

     “I’m sorry, Devon. I had a lovely day, truly. I-I am just so very tired.”

     It was closer to nine o’clock than the eight he'd promised but felt much later. The sun had already set and stars twinkled in the sky above them.

     Devon sighed and smiled. “”Yeah, I get it. Hey, I had an awesome time. It’s not every day I get to hang out with someone who’s not only super-smart but also, like, adorable. Are you sure you’re not up for a beer?”

     “Oy, she’s tired, mate, like she said,” Fil called from near the motel stairs where he lingered with Leem.

     Devon leaned closer so the brothers couldn’t hear him. “A five hour group date and they don’t like me any better than the first second they laid eyes on me, do they?”

     Molly smirked. “Sorry, they’re like that.”

     He laughed. “Well, it’s been a blast, Dr. Molly! Can I give you a hug goodbye?”

     “Um, sure.”

     Molly stood rigidly as he folded her in his arms. He gave her a squeeze and then stole a kiss from the corner of her lips as he let her go. Then he pressed a piece of folded paper into her hand.

     “I’ll be up for a while yet. Here’s my number if you change your mind. Have a great night,” he started walking backwards and waved a hand. “Bye, fellas!”

     Her face heated as she looked quickly back at the brothers. They looked like mirrored reflections of each other with the scowls on their faces.

     Molly limped towards the brothers. Her feet burned. She had worn a new pair of shoes with a bit of a heel on impulse without nylons. With all the walking they’d done around the park and Jasper, she had blisters on the backs and the sides of her feet.

     “You alright, Dr. Molly?” Fil asked.

     She half-smiled, half-winced. “I’ll be okay. I just need to make it up the stairs to my room now.”

      Leem grinned and winked. “Fil, ‘m just gonna go get some crisps from the petrol station. You fine wit the doctor for a tick?”

      Leem took off. 

     “Yeah, o’ course,” Fil looked at Molly. “I can give you a lift up the stairs if you like.”

     “Oh, no, that’s not necessary! I’ll just take these off now.”

     Fil frowned. “I wouldn’t walk up those steps without shoes, Dr. Molly. Ahm pretty certain someone’s pissed there.”

      She wrinkled her nose as she looked at the outside steps that led to the second floor of the motel. “Oh, God, disgusting.”

      Next thing she knew, Fil had scooped her up into his arms.

      “Fil!” She squeaked. “I’m fine, I can walk.”

      “No, not another step in them things. You girls are so silly wit yer fashion, you know. Gimme a nice pair a trainers any day.”

     Molly almost laughed aloud at the fashion comment. As if she was fashionable! She clenched her teeth. She felt ridiculous being carried up the stairs like a child. She held onto his arm as her face flamed. Fil grinned down at her.

     “Do you eat, Dr. Molly? You can’t weigh more than eight stone.”

      She wriggle uncomfortably in his arms. “Pfft, I’m nearly nine stone, in fact.”

      He poked his lips out. “Nah, I don’ think so.”

     They reached the top of the stairs and rounded the corner to where her room was located. That's when a voice, low and deep and . . . very irritated,  vibrated the air around them.

     “I see you’ve spent a lot of time thinking, Molly.”

      Molly felt a tremor ripple through her body at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. She looked towards the end of the balcony. An unmistakable dark figure wearing a long, black trench with the collar upturned stood near the door to her room. She couldn’t see much of his face except the outlines of a deep frown.

     “Oh, Lord,” she whispered as her stomach flip-flopped, “you better put me down, Fil. I think I’m in trouble.”


	20. The second act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it. I'm not subtle.
> 
> SSSSSSMMMMMMMMMMMMMUUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTTT.
> 
> Yeah, I did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so some of you want Molly to be perpetually pissed at our dear boy, but they both happen to be idiots about the other. Ever try to keep two people this into each other apart? They won't keep their hands to themselves even though I wield the keyboard. For Molly, Sherlock's, ahem, sword happens to be mightier than my pen.

    

     “No, Dr. Molly, I said I’d take ya to yer door. That’s what I’ll do.”

     “Put. Her. Down,” Sherlock’s baritone rolled towards them like an approaching tsunami.

     “Or what? I ain’t afraid o’ you, you bleedin’ twat.”

     Sherlock stepped forward slowly. The light from a single overhead fixture illuminated the hard angles of his face. Molly’s tummy twisted at the sight of him. Good God, when he wanted to turn it on, he was a fearsome creature to behold. He looked like an avenging angel who had been stripped of his wings.

     “You should be,” he said with a low rumble. “You’re missing your other half, Fil. Tell me, who do you think will be the first to arrive after we determine your flight capabilities from this floor? Leem, who is currently engaged in a discussion with the cashier at the petrol station, or the local ambulatory service? I am betting on Leem given the size and relative obscurity of this municipality.”

     Fil loosened his hold on Molly and lowered her to the walkway. Her loose skirt rippled around her legs. Of all the times to have chosen something so feminine to wear!

      “D-do you want me to go get Leem and then we’ll get rid of ‘im, Dr. Molly?”

     She looked anxiously at Sherlock as he strode forward. “N-no, Fil, I’ll be alright.”

     However brave her words, she was actually peeing herself a little. She had to admit, though, this was her favorite version of Sherlock; intense, determined . . . pent-up. She bit her lip. There really was something wrong with her to be both secretly thrilled and turned on by the fact that he had followed her half-way round the world.

     “I’ll check on ya later, Doctor,” Fil said as he steadied her and turned to go.

     “Much later,” Sherlock murmured.

     Fil shot him a sneer as he walked away. “Tosser.”

     Molly tucked in her lip as she stared at Sherlock. His eyes glinted in the darkness. His pale skin looked almost unearthly, like a reflection of the moon.

     “Well then,” she hobbled over to the door of her room and fished her card key from her pocket, “you found me.”

     The door latch clicked open just as he stepped behind her. She turned and found herself staring up into enlarged, black pupils as he glowered down at her. She winced as her shoe rubbed against one of her blisters. His eyes constricted for a fraction of a second.

     “What is wrong with your feet?” He asked in a low voice.

     She wrinkled her nose. “Um, I-I wore new shoes today, with heels. We walked around a lot. I have a couple of sore spots.”

     Molly’s breath caught as his arm came around her and hoisted her up on his chest so that their faces were almost level. Her gaze kept darting to his wickedly tempting mouth and his perfectly bowed lips. He pushed open the door with his other hand and walked her backwards into her darkened room with her feet dangling up off the floor.

     “Wh-what are you doing?” She gripped his shoulders.

     “Do you think I am any less concerned about your welfare than Fil?” His breath pulsed against her face.

     Molly stared wide-eyed at him a moment before the door started to swing closed. It picked up speed and slammed with a bang just as she felt her calves bump into the bed. The room plunged into darkness. She blinked as her eyes tried to adjust to the near black-out.

     _“Holy, hell,”_ she thought.

     Her senses felt heightened in the absence of light. Sherlock was so solid and unyielding against her small form. She wriggled against him and stretched her toes down to try to touch the floor but they encountered only air. She kicked off her shoes instead, glad to find relief, and dropped her purse uncerimoniously to the floor. He gripped her more firmly to his unforgiving frame. His breaths fanned hot and heavy over her face.

     “Stop it. I did not come here for this,” he muttered.

     Molly gulped in a breath. “Stop what?”

     She felt his head dip closer and the acute proximity of his face warm her skin. “Stop anticipating . . .things. Your physical reaction is affecting my mental faculties and I need to focus. I am furious with you for too many reasons to count.”

     “Pfft, name one good one.”

     He huffed. “How about that you are determined to put yourself in danger?”

     She sucked in a breath. If this was the kind of danger she was putting herself in, she’d take a second helping, and a third. Little flushes brought on by the resonant tone of his voice made her tummy quiver. She still couldn’t believe he was there.

     “Is this why you are here? To save me?” Her voice came out huskier than intended.

     Molly felt his hold slack. Gravity pulled her along his length to the floor. With a hoarse expulsion of breath, his hands moved up her back and cupped her face. She shivered when his thumb brushed over her lips and parted them gently. Her tongue darted out and flicked at it. He inhaled quickly. Every inch of her skin prickled with goosebumps at that sound.

     “Molly, I want to respect the physical boundaries you requested,” he ground out. “However, I am finding it difficult at present. I would suggest you do not do that again. Also, stop panting.”

     She licked her lips. “I’m sorry, I-I know you don’t like it when I pant.”

     He sighed. “That’s . . . not entirely accurate.”

    She couldn’t help herself. She was panting like a canine for dinner.

     Sherlock groaned, cursed and then his mouth came down on hers hungrily. Not being able to see or anticipate the crush of his lips made her toes curl. She grabbed a handful of his shirt and submitted to his onslaught but it wasn’t enough. She clawed her way up against him and opened her mouth to let him fully take advantage.

     She knew she should stop it. She knew she should be smarter and extract as many demands from him as she could before she succumbed, but it had been a very long, frustrating week since he’d changed every expectation she’d ever had about sex. Her inner demon had her pious and mousey inner self on her knees with her boring little voice of reason strangled by a choke hold.

     Sherlock pulled away for a moment. “We must s-stop. This is not what you want.”

     “Arg, shut up! Don’t tell me what I want right now. I know what I want.”

     “Do you?” He grumbled against her lips.

     “Yes, now shut it and kiss me.”

      Sherlock huffed again and kissed her between shuffling out of his coat and kicking off his shoes. Molly heard his Belstaff whoosh to the floor with a heavy thump as it landed. Then, she was weightless for a moment before being slammed down on the bed. In an instant, Sherlock had one hand curled around both her wrists and secured above her head. His other hand spread out over her belly as he half-pinned her with his torso and intertwined a leg with her own. His lips trailed over her jaw until he was close enough to nip at her ear.

     “Mmm, I should be punishing you,” he grumbled. “Not rewarding you.”

     Molly’s core clenched. A ribbon of apprehension unfurled in her belly.

     “Wh-what? Why?”

     “You know why,” his hot breath scalded her neck.

     “I-I don’t,” she protested weekly.

     Well, she kinda did, but wasn’t sure exactly what he was referring to right then as his hand flicked each of the buttons on her shirt open. Was it the lying about where she intended to travel? Was it concealing her investigation of Mr. Ralston’s death? Was it going on a sort-of date with Officer Richards? Was it letting Fil carry her up to her room? He was going to have to be more specific.

     “Aah!”

     Or not! Molly arched off the bed as she felt him pull down her bra cup and swirl his tongue around her nipple.

      “Hunh, oh God,” she cried as his, warm wet caress made her pulse between her thighs.

     She was beginning to think she wouldn’t mind being blindfolded and trussed up by Sherlock. She felt at his mercy in the darkened room. She didn’t know what he was going to do next and loved it. He let go of her hands briefly to remove her shirt and bra before immobilizing them above her head again.

      Sherlock shifted his weight on top of her. His rigid cock pressed larger than life through his clothing. She felt her nipples harden due to an invisible draft and then the tickle of his hair on her collar as he dipped to lap his tongue over each tight nub again. His mouth moved lower after he had her breasts perked and throbbing. She gasped as his full lips kissed the tender flesh where the curve of her breast met her rib. He ran a tongue under its swell.

     “I cannot get enough of the taste of your skin,” he murmured.

     Dear Lord, he had her in knots. Her womb kept shuddering with each syllable he uttered and every touch of his mouth on her body. A familiar ache between her legs tingled to life and suddenly, she felt very vacant down there. The hollowness made her insides quiver and her body began to prepare. Warmth, moisture, and insatiable need collected at the heart of her arousal.

     “Ah, you kill me, Sherlock. Y-you fucking kill me.”

     “Hmm, well, death is what I have planned,” he mumbled. “At least, a small one.”

     Her whole body tremored. “Oh, yes, yes, every time, yes.”

     He let go of her hands and at long last continued on a downwards path, leaving a path of kisses and licks as he went. When he arrived at the skirt she had put on earlier he paused just long enough to remove it, along with her knickers, and toss them aside. She was naked and feeling wonderfully vulnerable when he moved even lower, spread her thighs, and hiked one leg over his shoulder.

     She knew what was coming, her thighs trembled as his mouth worked its way to where she felt like she had a bomb ready to explode. Then, the first, hot probe of his tongue found its way to her clit. She had to bite down hard on her lip from screaming as an electric pulse jolted her body. She buried her fingers in the silky softness of his hair as his tongue lapped again.

     “Mmf, aaah . . . bloody hell!”

     All she could think besides how fucking awesome it felt was, holy shite! Sherlock Holmes was licking her cunt. Shivers coursed her entire length with each lap. Her loins tightened. She would have let go but greed prevented her from having an orgasm. She wanted, no needed to have him fill the painful void behind the bundle of nerves he stroked.

     She curled her fingers in his hair and tugged at his head gently. “Sherlock, I want . . . I want . . .”

     “Yes?”

     “Grr, you. You. I’m empty without you.”

     His fingers gripped her thighs. He kissed the inside of her leg.

     “Molly, I did not prepare for this . . .”

     “I don’t care,” she panted, “I don’t care!”

     “Molly you cannot proposition an addict with such a temptation. I-I cannot . . . I do not have the fortitude to resist you . . .”

     “If you aren’t naked in thirty seconds, I’ll . . . I’ll be giving my new friend Officer Richards a call and maybe he can accommodate me. I have his number.”

     In a matter of a few heartbeats, after a lot of shuffling and violent bounce of the mattress, Sherlock disrobed and jerked her underneath his muscular frame. His swollen member pressed like a timber against her belly.

     “We’ve resorted to threats, have we?” He murmured against her lips. “Then hear this, if you so much as text Officer Richards, I’ll have you bound and gagged.”

     Molly felt saucy all of a sudden. “Ooh, promise?”

     “Molly!”

     “Don’t make empty threats then, Sherlock!” She said with an anxious laugh.

     She felt his head descend next to hers. His deep voice reverberated in her ear. He grabbed one wrist, then the other and held them captive at the sides of her head.

     “Just remember,” he growled, “you asked for this.”

     His hand left her wrist briefly and stroked along her leg, then he pushed it up and out to open her up. He held her wrists down again once he had himself positioned. Molly’s breath hitched as the wide head on the end of his shaft pushed against her entry. She felt him spread her, then he breached her gates. He inched inside, drew back his hips and with a grunt, drove himself fully into her body.

     She gasped and felt a bubble of pain as he thrust so deep and forcefully that it shook the whole bed.

    “Uhh!”

     “Do you feel that?” He whispered harshly in her ear and thrust again.

     “Unh, yes, fuck!”

     Molly braced her forehead against his shoulder. It was so sinfully good to be filled up this way. The slight smart from the way his unnaturally large cock expanded her to her limits was the best kind of pain she ever felt. Already, she had become very slick. Her clit throbbed as he withdrew.

     “Do you know what it means?” He jerked her against the bed once more.

     “Aah, mmph, t-tell me.”

      “You are mine, Molly,” he rasped. “Mine.”

       His hips crashed into her over and over. Molly’s heart rate exploded, her body tensed beneath him. She felt a winding in her nerve center as the sensations built to an unbearable strain. Then, the little bud of nerves kindled. Small sparks erupted and shot out, causing fire to dance along her nerve endings. She clenched her eyes tightly closed as she imagined the flickering light of those sparks.

    She inhaled a shuddering breath. Suddenly, she was very aware of everything like the way Sherlock pumped in and out of her, the heavy weight of his damp chest pressing her down into the mattress, the trickle of sweat between her breasts, and the steely grip of his hands on her wrists. It was surreal . . . unreal! He was everything. On her, in her, around her -the imprint of him soaked into her skin.

     Ah hell! He was right, and she’d be damned if she admit it then, but - She. Was. His.

     A final, frantic drag of his cock through her body tipped the scales and she started to wobble out of control like a motorcycle crashing at high speed. Her insides clenched, the sparks let loose and she lurched against him as her orgasm wracked her senses. Pulses radiated outwards from her clit.

     Sherlock must have been right there and caught off guard because he gasped and bucked into her at the same moment and released. Her tongue fell to the back of her throat and she almost choked on it as he came and she felt the emptying of his cock. His hips juddered as he finished.

     “Christ,” he whispered. “Damn!”

     She felt one final pulse of his length before he extracted his spent member and flipped sideways. He gathered her up against him until they were spooning. He kissed the top of her head as his breathing slowed. She held onto his arm which was draped across her front.

     “Molly, that was probably . . . unwise,” he muttered against her hair.

     The day was catching up to her. She was ready to pass out but felt a stab of irritation.

     “Whatever,” she yawned, “I mean. Don’t worry, I’m still basically pissed at you about a lot of stuff. It doesn’t change anything.”

     Her eyes felt heavy. They drooped. She yawned again. Sleep was coming and she was powerful to resist it. Just before she slipped into slumber, she thought she heard Sherlock speak under his breath.

     “You are wrong,” he mumbled. “This changes everything.”


	21. The third and three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this installment we observe the typical behavoir of a pair of oryctolagus cuniculus left to their own devices.
> 
> And if you don't want to bow down at the alter of Holmes after this, you're touched.

 

     Molly awoke to a chill, the _‘someone has left the bed and it’s starting to cool’_ , kind of chill. When she sat up, she rubbed her eyes and looked around the dusky room. The sun hadn’t breached the horizon, she was sure, but it would be up soon. Her eyes fell on Sherlock wrapped in the room’s only white, cotton robe. He reclined in a metal chair he’d found at the desk. He was achingly handsome in his sleep. Her heart fluttered at the rare softness of his expression.  

    Quietly and as stealthily as she could, she slipped from the bed and into the room’s small washroom. She gaped at herself in the mirror and then her face heated. She had been thoroughly tumbled. Her long brown hair was in disarray, her mascara had smudged and her neck was faintly pink from where Sherlock’s stubble had scratched her skin. Oh, Lord, the events of the previous evening flooded back to her and her insides clenched. She looked down as she felt something wet dribble down her leg.

     She smacked her own forehead and gritted her teeth. Then shook her head and set about tidying herself.

     _“Really, Hooper? You trying to tempt fate?”_ She thought angrily.

      At least she was still taking her monthly contraception. Though, it hadn’t been as consistent as she would have liked with all the goings on like people trying to kill her, international travel and such. There wasn’t much chance she could get pregnant but one could never rule out the possibility when intercourse was involved.

     She gripped the edge of the sink as remembered the feel of Sherlock’s invasion. Her mouth watered, her inner walls palpitated and every inch of her skin tingled. He was the only man she’d ever had sex with without a condom and dirty girl that she was, she’d loved every primitive second of it. All the scaremongering of her parents and her medical training had cemented in her head the importance of protecting herself but with Sherlock, well, it all went for shit. 

     Which meant, they needed to sort some things out before they got themselves into trouble. Molly stepped in front of the mirror again and shook her fist at herself.

     _“Do not leave here without clearing some things up with him, Doctor!”_

     She nodded, lifted her chin and then tip-toed back into the main room. When she glanced at Sherlock, she saw that he was awake. She bit her lip and felt her skin heat all over. She was still completely naked. She reached for the bedding but then Sherlock’s voice rumbled from the far side of the room.

     “Don't. Come here . . . please.”

     Molly’s eyes flicked up. She took a step towards him shyly with her arms crossed and tilted her head forward so her hair would offer some coverage. His eyes remained narrowed slightly but intensely focused on her every movement. When she was just a step away, his hand moved to the tie on his robe and plucked it apart. He let it fall open, off his shoulders and then reached a hand out.

     She swallowed. Her heart sped up. She parted her lips and tried to breathe in and out evenly. Double damn! That was not going to happen. Not with the sexy-as-hell bedroom eyes and tick of a muscle in his jaw as he concentrated on her face. She clasped his hand and let him draw her onto his lap. A breathy sound escaped her lips as his fingers settled on her hips and had her straddle his legs. His cock, already stiff, jutted up between them.

     Molly groaned as she slid her hands over the sides of his taut abdomen. “Sherlock, we need to talk, you know.”

     One of his hands danced up along her spine until his fingers played with the hairs at the nape of her neck. The corner of his mouth twitched. His lips parted a moment, closed and then opened again.

     “It is five-thirty in the morning. It's too early to talk,” he murmured.

     His cock moved between them.

     “It’s too early to do a lot of things,” she sighed.

     His eyes flitted over her face. “I disagree.”

     She ran her hands up his body and circled them around his neck. “You are a very bad man, Sherlock Holmes.”

     His other hand pressed into the small of her back and coerced her forwards until their bodies were in full contact and their lips a sliver apart.

     “Yes, and?”

     She drew in a shaky breath. “Well, ah, w-we keep doing this and I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. We’re not good, right? So, don’t think things are resolved . . .”

     “You injure me, Molly.”

     He leaned forward and kissed her languidly. His lips stuck to hers as he pulled back. His fingers massaged her back.

      “Um, h-huh?” She stuttered.

      Her head was already swimming. Her core felt incredibly hot and needy and damp like it had a mind of its own and it knew his shaft was right there.

      His eyes rounded and he puffed his lips out in a pout.

      “I can’t help feeling as if you are,” he blinked several times and slapped a hand to his chest, “using me for sex. I feel so violated.”

     She frowned at him. “Don’t be smart, Sherlock.”

     He wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes around. “Hmm, sorry, impossible.”

     She pushed at his shoulder. “Or an arrogant arse!”

     “Also, impossible,” His mouth hung open in feigned umbrage. “Molly, I beginning to wonder if you know me at all.”

     Molly reached down between them then and wrapped her hands around his engorged member. His mouth went slack  and his head fell back a moment as she slid her hands along his length. When he dropped his chin again, his pale eyes had gone as dark as a thunder cloud.

     “I am corrected,” he muttered.

     Both his hands dropped to her bum then and he ground her against his rigid cock. Then he lifted her slightly and let her slide back down his length. She could feel every bump of every vein against her sweet spot. His chest heaved as his hot breaths gusted over her face. A shudder pulsed through his body which she could feel through her own. Her channel tightened. She was already ready for him, sopping, in fact. She squeezed her legs around his torso.

     “C-can I have it please?” She whispered.

     He raised a brow. “What do you want?”

     She chewed her lip. “You know what.”

     “Mm, no, I think I need more explicit instruction.”

     Molly huffed. Her face felt on fire. “Arg, y-your cock. I want it.”

     “Ah, I see,” he rumbled and lifted her up and back until she was positioned over his shaft.

     Molly held her breath as his blunt head probed her body. She sank down on him and sighed as he penetrated inch by inch. Every so often, she would stick on him a bit then plunge down until she was almost fully pierced by his hard staff. He shifted his hips and with a quick jerk, she was completely seated on his cock with his testicles pressed up against her backside. He was so far buried in her womb she could feel her belly button twinge.

     “Mm, ha-a-a!” She muttered and leaned her head against his

     She was still a bit sore from the previous night but it felt freakin’ fantastic.

     “Molly,” he gasped, “Dear God, I think you are the bad one in this situation. I have had an easier time passing on morphine.”

     His mouth found hers and he plunged his tongue between her lips as he gripped her arse and propelled his hips upwards. She was just at the right angle that her cleft rubbed against his body and perfectly stroked her clit. She shuddered with each thrust upwards and slide of his tongue over hers. She found herself mewling against his mouth and rocking her hips in tune as he assailed her body over and over.

    Tension formed at the sensitive point between her legs. The delicious friction stoked a fire and created a ball of pressure that felt ready to burst. She planted her hands on his shoulders and anchored herself on him. Each jerk of his hips brushed his dusting of chest hair over her nipples and made them tingle. It was enough to make her fracture.

     Then one of Sherlock’s hands slid up the side of her body. He pulled his head back. His eyes met hers intensely and he slowed his thrusts for a moment. His digits brushed over her lips and she parted them. He pushed his finger gently inside.

     “Lick,” he said gruffly and watched as she complied.

     Molly stroked her tongue along the ridges of his print. He extracted his finger, licked it himself and then she felt the heel of his palm skim down her body to her bum where she felt him nudge her cheeks apart with his knuckle. His eyes bore into hers as his other hand clutched her firmly. His hips continued to lift against hers and then . . .

     “Aah! Unh!”

     He swirled a warm, wet finger around the sensitive skin of somewhere very naughty and then jerked his hips upwards. Molly felt like she fell off a bicycle and started tumbling. A violent pulse exploded from her center and rippled outwards as she came hard. Her whole body spasmed and her spine went rigid.

    “Holy, mother fffff. . .”

     Sherlock cursed as she clenched around him. He leaned forwards, wrapped his arms around her and then jolted her a few more times before dropping his head to her shoulder and tensing. He jerked one final time and then trembled with his own discharge. His cock pulsed several times deep within her body.

     “Oh my god, oh my god,” she panted. “You’re a wicked, very bad man.”

     He turned his head and laughed against her neck. She threaded her fingers into his hair as he kissed her neck.

     “That’s what you like about me.”

     *   *   *

      Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and pushed a strand of hair off Molly’s face. He felt the corner of his lip tug upwards as she snored softly. He felt a bit of pride in that, actually. He had worn her out.

    His smile faded as he scanned her frame. A tremor rippled through his abdomen. She was ridiculously small, tiny even. She was essentially defenseless if ever accosted. Someone had tried to take her from him, twice. Mycroft thought he didn’t know about that but his spies stationed around Molly’s flat had seen the commotion. A couple of questions of the right people and he had learned everything he needed to know about the second attempt on her life. He let Mycroft spirit her away thinking she would be safer under heavy guard at some resort somewhere. What a mistake that had been. His fingers shook as he touched her brow.

     He felt as if his connection to her was but a shaky grasp on a string of a kite caught in a storm. He was trying so hard to hold on but it was a losing battle. Greater forces than he could muster were determined to rip her from his grasp.

     He blinked a few times. Seldom used tear ducts prickled painfully. He shook his head. He was an idiot, a fool, and he’d made the biggest mistake of his life letting Molly Hooper into his world because . . . because now he really had something to lose. He loved John, and Mrs. Hudson and was . . . _fond?_ of Greg Lestrade, but he couldn’t imagine throwing himself in front of a train if any of them expired as he could if Molly ceased to exist.

     “Molly,” he murmured.

     She continued to snore.

     “Molly,” he said softly. “I am sorry for everything, every word I uttered that caused you pain. I do not deserve your forgiveness even though . . .”

     He swallowed. “Even though I need it, so desperately.”

     Molly flinched in her sleep. Her mouth fell open and she snorted. He rubbed a hand over his face. A silent laughter shook his chest but his eyes stung again. His hand hovered over her face. He daren’t wake her. He began to choke up. Damn sentiment!

      “A-and I am sorry for what’s to come because I cannot prevent the pain it will bring you. Please know, no matter what happens, that . . .that . . .”

     She snuggled against him and mumbled something. He halted his breathing for a moment until he heard her heavy inhalations again. He finally settled his hand lightly on her hair and stroked it.

     “I love you, Molly.”


	22. The recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shorty but a goody with a little comic relief. We witness some of the brilliance of Molly but she's not done surprising us (or Sherlock) yet.

 

    “Nah, nah, that one.”

     “What one?”

     “That one, the cylinder.”

     “Wait a tick, that’s mine, ya sod!”

     Molly looked up as the bickering between her protectors escalated. Leem snatched a tube from beside his brother.

     “There’s no such thing as ‘mine’ where yer concerned,” he spat.

     Fil pushed himself off the lab bench he had been seated on, crossed his large arms and stood over his brother. He was an inch or two taller and a bit beefier but Leem’s stance didn’t waver. Molly watched with a bit of concern out of the corner of her eyes

     “I picked that one out special, wanker. Ya shoulda got yer own. Give it back!”

      Leem popped the top off the cylinder. “Or what? What you gonna do?”

     He reached into the tube and extracted a crisp. Then he deliberately stuffed the whole thing in his mouth and crunched down on it.

     “Mm, that’s fucking delicious!” He spit out crumbs.

     Fil grabbed the lapels of his jacket and jerked him forward. Leem slammed the tube of crisps back down on the bench top.

     “Alright, yeah, bring it, ya big pansy!”

     Molly exhaled noisily. “Stop it, you two!”

     Fil’s mouth puckered into a pout as he looked over at her. “He stole ma crisps, Dr. Molly.”

     She arched a brow. “They’re crisps. You can buy more.”

     He shook his head. “Nah, not like these. We don’ ‘ave these flavors back ‘ome.”

     Leem shoved his brother away. “Ya stuffed yer whole suitcase full of ‘em. You got loads!”

     “Boys! Really? I’m trying to work.”

     Both brothers leaned back against the bench and folded their arms across their chests. Leem scuffed at the floor with his foot while Fil studied the ceiling. She smirked and went back to work.

     A half hour later, Molly was just about finished her testing when Sherlock stalked into the lab.

     “Are you done yet?”

     She looked up at him with a bit of a scowl. “Yes, they want their lab back here shortly. I thought I’d be finished sooner but I’m unfamiliar with this equipment. I could have used some help.”

     His brows drew together. “Yes, but this is your area of expertise. Surely you wanted the tests to be performed by the most competent person possible?”

      Molly’s lips parted slightly. “Was that . . .? Um, sorry. Did you just pay me a compliment?”

     He puffed out a breath and gave his chin a shake. “No, I stated fact, and don’t fish, you don’t need to.”

     Molly suppressed a smile. “You’re such a charmer, Mr. Holmes.”

     He approached her with a half-smile and waved his hand in a flourish. “Thank you. That is my ultimate ambition in life. The crimes solving business is secondary.”

     “Uh-huh.”

     She scribbled a reminder of a question she needed to ask in her notes.

     “So, have you confirmed your suspicions regarding Mr. Ralston? Was it arsenic poisoning?” He asked.

      Molly looked up from her papers. “Yes, both chronic and acute. I can rule out accidental ingestion because it happened to him over several months given the deposits I found in his hair samples and the striations on his fingernails. Also, from what you and Mary have told me, he had been travelling so that rules out a common contaminated water source for each instance. The only way he could be exposed to these levels was if he or someone else had administered the poison.”

      Sherlock’s eyes constricted. “Why did you suspect arsenic? It is a rather Victorian method of poisoning someone. It would not have been my first deduction, so what was it? Mary said you were initially made suspicious from a phrase on his original post mortem?”

     She nodded. “Erm well, actually, at first I-I just thought he was just misdiagnosed because he couldn’t have contracted Yellow Fever very easily. His records indicated he had been vaccinated for that disease. So, I thought, m-maybe it was some other tropical illness given his mostly generic symptoms but the jaundice nagged me. That’s an indication of heavy metal poisoning, among other things. Then there was this note from, um, _‘Dr. Rojas’_ that tweaked something in my brain and I thought _, ‘arsenic!’_. Yeah, it was that, oooor maybe I read too many r-regency romances. Ah, or whatever. Um, anyways . . . ”

     Molly picked up the Colombian death examination report as she felt heat flood her face. She had shagged this man rotten but still couldn’t quit stuttering in his presence. She blinked away her embarrassment and scanned through the report, found the line she was looking for and pointed it out to Sherlock.

     “ _‘Huele a ajo’_ ,” she murmured. “ _‘Smells like garlic’_. Mr. Ralston must have been dosed with Arsenic just before he died. It would have been a massive amount for it to release enough arsine gas to make him reek of it.”

      Sherlock took the report from her hands with a rounding of his eyes. “Oh, you are clever, Molly. Clever, clever . . . “

     Molly smiled and shrugged shyly until he turned to go unexpectedly. She stamped her foot.

     “Where do you think you’re going?”

     Interesting. Supreme irritation seemed to be the cure to her stuttering and shyness.

     He whirled. “Colombia, of course.”

     “What are you talking about? Our flight is tomorrow.”

     He squinted his eyes for a moment. His lips poked out.

     “Nooo, it’s not.”

     “Pardon?”

     He lifted his chin and straightened his jacket. “I took the liberty of redirecting your flight. You are going back to England. I am going to Colombia. My flight leaves, ooh, in an hour or so. So you’ll forgive me if I rush off? Clock’s ticking!”

     Molly gestured to the boys as Sherlock turned on his heel again. “Stop him, please.”

     Leem and Fil smirked and blocked the door.

     “We’s both ‘ere now, Mr. Holmes,” Leem smiled and waggled his brows. “It’s best ya stay and chat for a bit, hmm?”

     Sherlock exhaled noisily and faced Molly again. “Molly . . .”

     She pointed to her face. “What do you see, Sherlock?”

     He studied her expression. He glanced back over his shoulder to the boys and then looked at her again.

      “Well?” She prompted.

     He pressed his lips in a line. He cricked his neck to one side.

     “I see a pain in my . . .”

     “Try again.”

     He took a deep breath and then sputtered it from his lips in frustration. “I see a mad woman!”

     “No.”

     He opened his mouth.

     “No!”

     He raked his hands through his hair.

     “Fine, God! I see my travelling companion. We need to leave quickly, however. Although I love burning up Mycroft’s pocketbook, he might just order the jet to depart and we will end up flying coach,” he shuddered. “Can you be ready to vacate this facility in five minutes?”

     Molly collected her things. She stopped just at his shoulder as she went to brush by him. She looked up and winked.

     “Oh, I’m pretty much ready to go whenever I’m around you, Sherlock.”

     His eyes twitched and a little spasm made his cheek jump. “Careful, Dr. Hooper.”

     She leaned closer and whispered. “Is there a restroom on the plane?”

     He tilted his head in confusion as his eyes contracted. “I would imagine . . .”

     She nodded slowly. “How high up will we be flying? A mile, you think?”

     His lips parted. “Most likely.”

     She trailed a finger down his arm. “Good. See, I heard about this club . . .”

     Sherlock’s eyes widened. Then his head shot up. He glowered at the boys who were engaged in wrestling over a new tube of crisps.

     “Well, what are you two wasting time for? We have a plane to catch!”


	23. The journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something to satisfy you all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, More about my boys some of you are developing a tendre for, Leem is actually quite smart (regularly tests quite high on the IQ scale) and has a bit of a poetic soul. Fil is an optimist. Both are hopeless romantics.

    _Thump!_

     “Should we check on Dr. Molly?”

     Leem glanced up from his tablet at his younger brother. “No, dummy! You don’t wan’ ta go back there right now.”

     Fil puckered his lips in a frown. “But she sounds like she’s strugglin’ wit somethin’.”

     Leem’s brow twisted. He swiped to the next page in his e-book and tried not to envision what was happening in the jet’s tiny loo.

     “Trust me, she ain’t strugglin’. Mr. Holmes is . . . helpin’ ‘er out wit her outfit, I think.”

     “Mr. Holmes is back there?” Fil’s mouth hung open.

     Leem picked up a nearby packet of peanuts, wound up and beaned his brother in the forehead with it. “Well, where the hell did ya think he was at? Wit the pilots?”

     Fil shrugged and slunk back into the seat. He opened up the pouch of nuts and started eating them.

     “Bleedin’ tosser! Does she really like ‘im?”

     Leem nodded and scanned through the next few lines but couldn’t concentrate. He sighed as Fil continued to blather on.

     “Why? Why does she like ‘im so much?”

     “Come off it, Fil? Are ya daft? Even if she weren’t looney about that wanker, she’s not for you.”

     Fil raised his chin. “That’s a load a shite!”

     Leem put his tablet aside and leaned forward. He pointed at Fil with a violent jerk of his hand.

     “You shouldn’t even be lookin’ up at Dr. Molly and if ya do, you should ‘ave sun in yer eyes, understand? She deserves better than brawlers like us.”

     Fil scrunched up his face and gestured wildly in the direction of the bathroom. “He ain’t better than us. She deserves better than ‘im.”

     Leem sat back again and grabbed his tablet. “Yea, you’re right on both points, I’ll give ya that.”

     “So, what’s ‘e got that I ‘aven’t?”

     Leem swirled his hand around. “’E’s the posh London type and e’s wicked smart and educated and . . .”

     Fil waved a hand at him then crossed his arms. “Ah, shut it, already.”

     Leem smiled wanly. “Whatever the reasons are, they don’ matter. She was ‘is long before ya eva met ‘er. Besides, ya shouldn’t even be thinkin’ about gettin' a girlfriend.”

      Fil wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

     Leem looked up from his tablet one last time.

     “Cause our lot ‘as an early expiry date, Fil,” he grumbled resentfully. “We’s married to our job and she’s a black widow. One these days, she’ll bite our ‘eads off. Ya don’ wanna be leavin’ no wife and kids behind to grow up like we did so put the romance nonsense out your ‘ead. It’s not fer us.”

                  *   *   *

     “Ow!”

     “Oomph, Molly, watch your knee.”

     “Sorry,” she kissed Sherlock again.

     They were half-way there but the tiny closet of a bathroom on Mycroft’s jet was proving to be a bigger challenge than Molly had anticipated. They had managed to get (mostly) out of their clothes. Sherlock’s pants and drawers as well as her shirt and underthings were on the floor. So, they were naked enough, but the confines meant none of their angles were working out. Currently, she was partially supported by the lavatory sink as Sherlock gripped her thighs. He had one leg up on the closed toilet seat and was trying to draw her nearer but there really was not enough room.

      However un-sexy it was turning out to be, she wasn’t ready to give up yet. She greedily ran her hands over his muscled stomach.

     He groaned as he kissed her along her jaw. “This isn’t going to work.”

     She clutched at him and then ran her fingernails lightly down his back. “Yes, yes, it is. We just need to move a bit this way . . . ack!”

     Her knees bumped against the door again and rattled it on its hinges.

     Sherlock laughed against her neck. “The brothers are going to rip this door off its moorings and haul me out by my collar at any moment, Molly. Perhaps we should call it . . .”

     “No, no, I’m all worked up. I need satisfaction.”

     His eyes constricted lazily. He skimmed a hand between her legs and massaged her clit.

     “I’m sure I can assist you.”

     She dropped her hands to his rod and stroked it. “Mm, but I want to be able to brag about becoming a member of an exclusive club. You might have joined already but I haven’t.”

     Sherlock raised his head and kissed her so hard it tilted her head back. He pushed one, two, then a third finger inside her and thumbed her sensitive nerves. Her head fell back with a gasp.

     “Oh! God.”

     “Don’t be too disappointed,” he murmured. “I have not yet fornicated on an aircraft so we will both of us remain mile-high virgins.”

     “But that would make me your first then. I want to be your first at something,” she panted.

     It was incredibly hard to ignore the spurts of sensation every time he moved his thumb over her sweet spot. She felt herself winding up. She wanted, no needed, to have him.

     “Be assured, you are my first for many things, Molly,” he muttered against her lips.

     “Not good enough!”

     Sherlock jerked as her hands increased pressure on his cock. He grunted against her lips.

     “Alright, fine, there is one position we have yet to try,” he mumbled. “You are going to have to turn around, though.”

     Molly bit her lip as his hand slid from between her thighs and he helped her from the sink to the floor. He gently turned her around so that she was facing the mirror with her hips against the sink. She was naked from the waist up. His shirt hung open and he had a concentrated look on his face. Her eyes met his in the mirror and she instantly flamed all over.

     He leaned down and kissed the back of her neck as he flipped the skirt she wore up to her waist. “Don’t be bashful now, Molly Hooper. You insisted on this.”

     His fingers danced over her hips as her skirt fluttered around her thighs. He stroked his hands over the curve of her bum and rubbed his staff between her cheeks. Molly inhaled sharply and braced herself against the mirror with one hand as he urged her bum upwards. Then, he nudged her legs apart with his knee, dipped down a bit and guided his cock to her entrance.

     “Mm, ah, f-” she swore.

     If it were possible, he felt even larger entering her this way. He worked his way in, then withdrew a little to make sure he was lubricated and continued to push forwards. Her fingers tensed on the cold mirror and she closed her eyes as she tried not to cry out. The feel of his girth spreading her bum, the hard invasion of him into her channel and then the press of his torso against her backside once he was fully sunk was so hot and primal she could almost drool.

     He pushed her forward with his hips then backed up, drawing her with him and thrust up hard. She slapped another hand on the mirror as her heels lifted.

    “Uh-h-h.”

     Sherlock moaned and leaned forward, he grabbed hold of her hips and rutted her like a creature blinded by lust. The rawness of it excited her so thoroughly it made her loins ache. She was incredibly slippery; so much so that she could hear each suck of her on him as he retracted and thrust into her again.

     She couldn’t help the heavy breaths and odd cry that escaped her lips as he plundered her body. As she approached her eruption, he pressed her against the sink. One of his hands intertwined his fingers with hers on the mirror as the other reached around and sought her sex. His fingers rubbed over her clit, causing streams to surge from her center. When she clenched down on him, his other hand left her cleft and covered her free one.

     The moment burned into her mind. Her skirt high up on her waist, the hard metal counter bruising her hips, his solid body at her back, and his breaths hot against the nape of her neck. Then, as if the jet was falling and spinning out of control, so too did she. One spasm, then another wracked her small frame.

     “Aah!” She gasped.

     “God, Molly,” he whispered hoarsely.

     He followed her, his body stiffened as he thrust one final time. His hands tightened on hers briefly as he groaned. He shuddered at her back. His chin rested on the top of her head as they each heaved in breaths.

     “H-have I succeeded in, ahem, punching your card?” He murmured.

     Molly swallowed and leaned back against him as he released her hands. “Oh, yes, I would say we are full fledged members of the club now.”

                    *   *   *

     Molly looked over at her snoozing security team then back to Sherlock. He sat forward in his seat, which faced hers, with his hands folded together under his chin. He was so deep in thought, he had that vacant look in his eyes as if his soul had left his body. She almost didn’t want to interrupt him but they couldn’t keep carrying on the way they had been without some sort of understanding.

     As if reading her thoughts, she watched his nose wrinkle and his eyes flash.

     “What is it?” He asked.

     She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She wasn’t sure where to begin.

     “Molly, you know as well as I do that I do not want to have this conversation, so if you don’t mind, can we get on with it?”

     She took a breath. “Sherlock, things aren’t good between us.”

     His lips twitched at the same time his cheek jumped. “No? I thought they were quite good . . .”

     Her face warmed. “No, not like that. I mean, things aren’t resolved between you and I.”

     “So you keep saying.”

     She jutted her lip out. “Stop it. You just said you didn’t want to drag this out so stop being cagey.”

     “How about you tell me what I should say, Molly? If I know what you want to hear, we can be finished much more quickly.”

     She sighed and rubbed her hands over her face. “Sherlock, I just want you to be honest with me for once. For starters, why did you have me playing the part of your girlfriend? Was it for that Irene woman?”

     A muscle flicked in his jaw as he seemed to decide whether he should answer her or not. Molly tightened her hands into fists on her lap. Finally, he dipped his head.

     “Yes, but not for the reasons you suspected. I was not trying to make her jealous for my emotional benefit.”

     Molly released the breath she had been holding. “Then what for? And be honest because Mycroft told me some things . . .”

     Sherlock sat up. He clenched his jaw momentarily.

     “Such as?”

     “Never mind, that’s for me to know. I don’t need for you to be creative with the truth. So?”

     His nostrils flared. “Just so you know, I am not the only one who can be ‘creative with the truth’ as you put it. In any event, I met Irene through a case many years ago. She’s . . . interesting and I have a respect for her, of a sorts. Beyond that, I don’t feel it’s your business, if I may be so blunt. I have never asked you about any of your previous relationships and respect your privacy in those matters. Can you afford me the same veneration?”

     Molly swallowed. Jealousy made her tummy clench but he was right. She had no claim to his secrets.

     “Yes, I suppose.”

      “Excellent. Well, anyways, I suspected Irene had returned to England and somehow learned of my impending exile . . .”

     Molly lurched forward and waved her hand. “Wait, what?”

     “Hmm? The exile? Oh, that was nothing, just Mycroft shipping me off to my almost certain death as punishment for killing a man. Don’t worry about it, it was all part of a bargain we made. I neutralized a mutual problem while he worked on some way to smooth it over. He assured me he’d have a solution before my six months were up. Anyways, where were we? Yes, Irene. I think she had something to do with broadcasting Moriarty all over the damn place. See, I saved her life once. I gather she thought she could repay her debt.”

     She laid her hand on her chest as his revelations sunk in. Suddenly, Irene seemed very unimportant.

     “Y-you were going into exile and you never bothered to tell me?”

     He frowned and looked away. “I-I was incarcerated. I was not allowed to contact anyone.”

      “But even a note or something . . .”

     He slammed a hand down on the arm of his chair. “What the hell am I supposed to say to you in a note? What would have been sufficient? What would I have chosen out of the innumerable things I have left unsaid . . .”

     His loud exclamation seemed to come at the same time the plane jostled. Molly looked towards the front of the plane where Leem momentarily stirred before his head dropped again. Fil continued to snore at the ceiling.

     Tears prickled her eyes as she looked back at Sherlock. “S-something, you prat. Anything would have been better than nothing. At least I would have known you cared about me.”

     His chest heaved as he pierced her with his gaze. “Better? To leave you with some vague notion I harbored some sentiment for you? That would have made things easier on you?”

     Molly stared down at her hands. He didn’t understand how much his mistrust hurt.

     She wiped her nose as she sniffed. “Yeah, yeah, no, I get it. You wouldn’t want me to get the wrong idea. I might have blown it out of proportion or something, right?”

      He shook his head. “Molly, arg, you listen, you just don’t hear.”

     She glared at him. “My hearing is better than you think.”

     He huffed. “This is going nowhere.”

     “No, it’s been a revelation,” she said bitterly. “So, finish your story. Miss Irene came to your rescue, whoop-de-doo!”

     He massaged his brows. “Yes, but it’s never so simple with someone of her ilk. There’s always a game where she’s concerned and I needed you to put her off it. See, she plays best when she has the upper hand. If I had been unencumbered, she would have been on my doorstep that same night with expectations. I needed some way to delay her and maybe get her to reveal her cards, such as who she’s working with. I now believe whoever she enlisted to help her with that broadcast is very dangerous. The sort who would murder my girlfriend just to send a message.”

      Molly absorbed the information with a tight chest. She didn’t know what to think of it all.

     “Did you know someone would try to kill me from the start?”

     Sherlock pushed himself off the chair and sunk to his knees in front of her seat. “No! No, I did not realize the danger I was placing you in until it was too late.”

     Molly wanted to ask so many more questions but she was a bit overwhelmed. Instead, she had one more query.

     “Why couldn’t you just tell me from the beginning? You know, I would have helped you all the same.”

     “Yes, I do.”

     “But you don’t trust me. Why?”

     He squeezed her hands. “It’s not you, Molly. I don’t trust myself.”


	24. The disparity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two different women. One rises, one falls, but their paths will inevitably cross again (because reasons).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !WARNING! !WARNING! !WARNING!
> 
> If implied violence and abuse (not very explicit) makes you queasy, skip this chapter. My bad guy really is a very bad guy! I don't go into details but the suffering should be palpable and maybe, just maybe, you feel a little sorry for someone you wouldn't otherwise.

 

    “Where are they?”

     Irene shook as she turned to look at him. She pulled the ties of her dressing gown tighter. She should have known something was amiss. He had been far too gentle when they had been together. Like the placidness of the tide just before it reversed.

     “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Dr. Hooper and her escorts disappeared some days ago and Sherlock shortly thereafter. I can only assume they are together.”

     He sat up in the bed. The sheet slipped down and exposed his chest and torso with a jagged scar running from just near his throat to his hip. How did he survive such a thing? It looked like someone had started an autopsy but never completed it. He reached for his vaporizer. This was when he was at his most frightening. She knew how much he needed his fix, yet every movement was deliberately unhurried and measured. He took one long drag on it, then another, and set it down.

     “Come here,” he held out his hand.

     “I-I was just going to have a shower, actually.”

     The muscles on either side of his jaw flexed. “Don’t make me beg, Irene, or I’ll make sure you do. Lose the robe, please, but . . . bring the sash.”

     Irene fumbled with the tie at her waist and let the gown slip to the floor. She held her chin up as she approached him with the tie in her outstretched hand. He took it from her, drawing it slowly from her grasp and then clamped a hand on her arm. His grip was hydraulic. The pressure he exerted stole her breath.

     “Don’t fight,” he murmured as he pulled her down to the bed. “You know I don’t like that.”

     No, he wasn’t keen on the things she enjoyed. He was into degradation and humiliation which was much different than the roles she liked to play. With her clients, she never did anything they didn’t request in advance and subsequently enjoyed. She respected boundaries.

     He didn’t.

     Strangely enough, while pain was something he liked to use, it wasn’t the pain he inflicted that she feared. It was the way he knew exactly how to debase and control her so that once they were finished, she hated herself for allowing it to happen. She only submitted because of the secrets he knew, and he revelled in that knowledge. It was something he got off on, actually. He was excited because she was repelled by him.

     “You haven’t been doing your job,” he mumbled as he wound the tie around her wrist, “so, you need to be taught a lesson.”

     “Please . . .”

     He pushed her down to the bed and grabbed her ankle. “Don’t grovel. Just cry.”

     It seemed to go on for ages but Irene endured. When he was finished, he leaned down over her, and spoke with humid, fetid breaths in her ear.

     "I enjoyed that,” he mumbled. “Now, I’m going to leave you here for a while so you understand how useless you have become to me. Maybe this will make you try harder in the future.”

     Irene bit her lip. She hadn’t cried, she had fought every sting of her tear ducts, but he had done this before and she knew what it meant. A tear escaped her lid and rolled down her cheek. He smiled and licked it from her skin. She shuddered.

     “That’s better. Now, I’m off to go see if I can figure out where they are and what they are doing. Then, maybe, I’ll go see the missus. Ha! Don’t worry, I won’t tell her about us.”

     He dressed and then left. She was hogtied, lashed to the bed, naked, and soiled. He would leave her there, unable to move with no idea of when he would return. She had been used and discarded. He had achieved exactly what he intended which was for her to experience one of her greatest nightmares- to be alone, vulnerable and worst of all, inconsequential.

                  *   *   *

     “If you don’t mind, fellas,” Molly smiled at her shadows, “can I speak to this doctor privately?”

     Leem and Fil looked at each other. A silent conversation passed between the two of them.

     “’Kay, Dr. Molly, but you give us a shout if ya need us,” Leem replied.

     She nodded. “Yeah, of course. I don’t know why you need to follow me around, though. It’s not like anyone knows we’re here. You should really be watching Sherlock’s back. You know he’s more liable to put himself in tight spot.”

     “He don’t need our ‘elp,” Fil said with a huff.

     She smirked. “Uh, huh. Could you wait here? I won’t be long.”

     They dipped their heads. She meandered down the basement corridor of San Rafael Hospital until she found the room number she sought. Molly knocked on the door jam of the small office and hung back even though the door was open. She glanced down at her phone and practiced the words on the screen.

     “ _Si? Adelente!_ ” A deep male voice called from within.

      She took that as her cue. She stepped into the room and attempted the phrase on her translate app.

     “ _Ola! Perdón , ¿estás Dr. Rojas?_ ” She asked haltingly.

     She looked up from her phone and almost dropped it as her mouth fell open. The man seated behind the office’s small desk could be Greg Lestrade’s Latin cousin. He had a very similar look, except his hair was longer and darker. Also, his eyes were dark blue instead of brown.

     “Let me guess, from the way you mangled my beautiful language, you are English speaking?” He asked.

     Molly smiled apologetically. “Yes, I’m so sorry. Did you understand any of that?”

     He stood up and extended his hand. “Dr. Javier Rojas at your service, and you are?”

     His English was flawless. She felt like an ass.

     She stepped forward and shook his hand over the desk. “Molly Hooper, um, actually, Dr. Molly Hooper.”

     He looked at her expectantly. “How may I help you, Dr. Hooper? Please, won’t you sit?”

     Molly quickly took a chair. “Um yes, sorry if I’m bothering you.”

     “No, not at all.”

     She tucked her phone away in her bag and crossed her ankles under her chair. Where to start?

     “Dr. Rojas, this is going to be strange, no doubt, but I wanted to ask you some questions about a post mortem examination you performed many, many years ago. You see, I also do what you do. I’m a pathologist in London. I was asked to look into the death of a man you once examined because it was considered suspicious from our perspective.”

     Dr. Rojas folded his hands together and sat back with raised brows. “Do go on.”

     She smoothed her hands on her lap and continued. “I don’t know if you will remember the man. He died twenty years ago.”

     Dr. Rojas’ eyes went very large. “Twenty years? Do you know how many cases I have had in that time? I doubt I will be able to recall much.”

     “Oh, yes, of course. It’s just, you were just starting out in this field. It may have been one of your early cases and this man was a foreigner. He was Canadian. You determined he succumbed to Yellow Fever. I thought that might be unusual enough to jog your memory . . .”

     His eyes constricted with a far-away look. He rubbed his fingers together.

      “Anthony Ralston.”

     Molly’s hand hit her chest as her mouth dropped open. She had not expected that at all.

     “Y-you remember, remarkable.”

     Dr. Rojas reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew a worn notebook stuffed with loose papers. He set it on the desk top and flipped it open.

     “He wasn’t just one of my early cases, Dr. Hooper. His was the very first official death determination that I made on my own and signed off on. You always remember your first, no?”

     Molly chewed her lips at the irony of his words which were both Mycroft’s and even her’s recently.

     He flipped through his book and thumbed to an entry. “In fact, I recorded it here in my diary.”

     Molly was speechless. Sherlock hadn’t thought there was much point in talking to Dr. Rojas because he had gotten the cause of death wrong in the first place. Sherlock had, instead, gone off to the police department to see if there were any relevant reports or files related to Mr. Ralston's death.

     Dr. Rojas’ brows furrowed together. “Was I wrong Dr. Hooper? Did he die from something besides Yellow Fever?”

     She nodded. “Yes, but it was an easy enough mistake to make given your inexperience at the time. You were just 26, right?”

     He nodded and sighed. “I’ve made mistakes since then, with much more experience. Still, it does not feel good to learn I started out on the wrong foot.”

     Molly smiled in commiseration. “We all make mistakes, Dr. Rojas. I thought, well, i-if it were me, that I would want to know. Even if it was so long ago.”

     He looked up from his notebook. "You are correct about that. I would like to know. Please, tell me what you have discovered.”

      So, Molly explained the details of her investigation (but not the reasons behind it) from when she first suspected arsenic poisoning, to the exhumation and then confirmation of her hypothesis. Dr. Rojas listened intently. Every so often, he’d ask a question but for the most part he was quiet. When she finished, he ran a finger over his entry from that day absentmindedly. His brows drew together as he read.

     “One thing does not make sense,” he murmured. “We had an outbreak of Yellow fever that year. His was not the only case. In fact, he was not the only Canadian seeming to suffer from the disease. See here, a companion of his was brought in with the same symptoms.”

     Molly read the entry. Her heart raced.

     “Um, do you mind if I snap a picture of your notes?”

     He pushed the diary forwards. “Be my guest.”

     She captured a couple of stills on her phone and then skimmed through the notes.

     “This other man didn’t die though, it seems.”

     Dr. Rojas shook his head. “No, I would have recorded his death if that had happened.”

     A torrent of thoughts swirled through Molly’s brain. She had a name and another piece in the puzzle. It was a small step forwards but progress, nonetheless. This other fellow who had fallen ill may also have been poisoned. Perhaps he might even have an idea who had wanted to kill Anthony Ralston and why. She just hoped he could be found.

     “I can’t thank-you enough, Dr. Rojas. Your help has been invaluable.”

     He bowed his head. “You are welcome. Can I ask you a question?”

     “Anything!”

     He closed his notebook and put it away. “You know nothing about me. What made you so certain I would be of any help to your investigation?”

     Molly’s lips tugged at the corners. “You’re a pathologist. We’re a special sort, you know. Our job is to provide answers with a gravitas few can comprehend. We are the witnesses of and testament to a person’s final moments. A pathologist needs to care, probably more than most, to be able to respect the life that was once in a corpse. I just don’t see how you could do this job if you didn’t. So, I knew there was some advantage to talking to you. I knew you would care.”

      “Thank-you, Dr. Molly Hooper, for that. I hope you can find a resolution. If it’s not too much trouble, could you inform me if you do?”

      “Definitely.”


	25. The unearthing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures in Bogota! Sherlock being Sherlock. Riddles unraveling.

 

    Molly looked up as the door to her hotel room swung open and she heard the loud crack of two hands coming together. Sherlock strolled towards where she sat at the room’s writing desk rubbing his hands together. He had the largest grin on his face.

     “How’s your day been then, Sherlock?” She asked.

     His eyes widened as he laughed. “Productive!”

     She could tell from the shit-eating grin on his face and the way his brow jumped that he was too pleased with himself over something. She leaned back in her chair as she studied him.

     “Mm, hmm, did you learn something from the police department?”

     His lips parted and he looked sideways for a moment with a smirk as if there was another person in on his little discovery. Then, he returned his gaze.

     “Only that Mr. Ralston was arrested just one month before he died over a domestic dispute with a young man. Mr. Ralston wasn’t charged, it was determined he was the injured party, but there was a charge of assault laid against his assailant, most like his lover given the gist or the report. Of course, the charge was eventually dropped once Mr. Ralston died. That worked out for the perpetrator, hmm? Can you say, motivation?”

     “Oh,” Molly glanced down at her phone and the pictures of Dr. Rojas’ notes she had taken earlier. “Yes, I suppose that makes a lot of sense.”

     Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What? What is it? Did you learn of anything of use from your incompetent examiner?”

     Molly opened her mouth to speak when the door to the hotel room flew open.

     “Mr. Holmes,” Leem panted as he waved to his back. “Fil’s distracting a couple a police men ‘round the corner by the elevators. They’s hot about some stolen police files or somethin’. Now, you wouldn’ta had anything to do wit that, would ya?”

     Sherlock made an ‘eep’ face. “Erm, they must be mistaken.”

     Leem sighed. “You don’ ‘ave anything on yer person, do you? You wouldn’t be that stupid, right?”

     His eyes flicked down to his trench. “No?”

     “Aaarg! Mr. Holmes!”

     Sherlock flipped open his trench. “Fine, I’ll just disappear for a few hours. I have something to do anyways. Hold them for a bit longer and I’ll slip down the back stairs.”

     “What if they want ta drag Dr. Molly downtown for questionin’?”

     Sherlock pursed his lips and stuck his hands in his hair in frustration. He cursed as he paced a few steps. Then he shook out his shoulders.

     “She can come with me then. Molly? We need to leave at once.”

     She rolled her eyes and scrambled to her feet with a huff. She grabbed her bag and slipped into her shoes.

     “You just can’t resist pissing off someone on every continent,” she grumbled.

     “Where ya goin’ then, so we can find ya laters?” Leem asked.

     Sherlock tightened his scarf. “A walk.”

     “The sun’s goin’ down, Mr. Holmes. I’ll not ‘ave our girl wanderin’ Bogota at night.”

     Sherlock’s face darkened and a deep furrow formed between his brows. He stepped towards Leem with menace.

     “She’s not your girl, Leem,” he hissed between his teeth, “and you have no need to be concerned about her welfare when she’s with me. I will take care of her.”

     They stood nose to nose (well, almost, Sherlock had an inch on Leem at least) for a moment until Molly folded her arms and started tapping her foot.

     She glared at the both of them. “Oh, good Lord, get a grip! I can take care of myself, thank you very much!”

     Leem pressed his lips in a line. Sherlock snorted. Molly hiked her bag on her shoulder and brushed by the pair of them on her way out of the hotel room. She stomped down the hall towards the stairwell and then pushed through the exit with a noisy sigh. Sherlock caught up to her on the first landing.

     “Molly,” He cupped her elbow gently. “Wait.”

     She turned. “I’m getting sick of being treated like some helpless lamb.”

     Sherlock stared down at her and shook his head. “I don’t view you that way at all.”

     “No?”

     He walked her backwards until she met the wall.  “No.”

     Her eyes flicked up and down from his eyes to his lips. His hands ran over the sides of her face, down her front until they grasped her around her ribs just beneath her breasts. He looked down over her body then back up again with an intensity on his eyes.

     “It’s just . . . I believe Leem and Fil have become a little too . . . attached to you.”

     Molly blinked up at him a couple of times innocently. “Well, I’ve become quite attached to them.”

     His nostrils flared and his top lip curled for a fraction of a second. His fingers tightened on her middle, then he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers frantically like he was a little unhinged. Her head bumped back against the wall as his chin tilted hers upwards. She parted her lips with a sigh that bubbled up from her chest and let his tongue sweep inside. Her hands crept up around his neck and pulled him closer. She could never get enough of him even as he made her crazy.

     He pulled his mouth back after he left her breathless. “I thought we had an understanding.”

     Molly fought to regain her airway. “What kind of understanding?”

     As of yet, they'd cleared up a few things but hadn't sorted out their relationship.

     His eyes squinted down at her in assessment. “The kind of which means you do not form attachments to other men.”

     The deep, possessive timber of his voice made her insides all squishy. He was so devastating at this close proximity with his unusual beauty. His wide spaced, sometimes blue, sometimes green but definitely, one-of-a-kind elliptical eyes shone down with so much intelligence and face-fanning admiration she could swoon. Her gaze wandered over his exaggerated cheekbones, narrow yet firm, angular jaw with its stubborn (stubborn!) chin and then finally drank in the perfection of his well-defined, yet supple lips.

     “B-but they’re my boys!” She deliberately taunted him.

     His left eye twitched. His lips parted.

     “I am yours,” he ground out. “Only me.”

     Her belly contracted. She felt a flush wash through her entire system from the heels of her feet to her scalp where it prickled. Ah, damn, she’d let him throw her down and make a baby right there if the stairs didn’t look so dirty.

     At that instant, angry voices erupted above them through the stairwell door. Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he grabbed Molly’s hand.

     “Right. Better go.”

          *   *   *

     Molly shivered. Even though they were walking at a brisk pace and it was early summer, it was quite cool after having exited the cab that brought them to this more affluent, residential area. They may as well still be in Alberta or England! She thought she would get to put on a flirty sundress but as it turned out, Bogota was ridiculously high above sea level up in the mountains. So much for the tropics!

     She looked around as they made their way towards the last known residence of Gerardo Zapata, the young man who Sherlock suspected may have murdered Anthony Ralston. She wondered if he still lived there and what kind of reception they would receive. She hoped Sherlock didn't outright accuse him of being a murderer before they had a chance to speak. Then again, if he was a killer, she didn’t particularly want to converse with such a man.

     She looked up at the houses as they walked. They really could be in England on some streets. Some of the red brick houses and apartment buildings looked like they could have been plucked from any number of cities back home save for the clay roofs.

     “Here we are,” Sherlock mumbled.

     Molly gazed at the modest two-story townhouse set back from the street with its white stucco façade. It was part of a string of them facing a small park. Sherlock reached through the metal drive gate and pressed the button on the buzz box. After a few moments, a female’s voice crackled over the intercom.

     “ _Hola_?”

     _“Buenas noches, ¿está la señora Zapata en casa?”_

Molly stared dumbfounded at Sherlock. “You speak Spanish?”

     He lifted his finger from the button. “Not well, I don't think. I have been here almost 24 hours. Although, I was sleeping some of that time. Perhaps my accent isn’t nearly as authentic as it should be either.”

     The speaker sputtered to life again as the woman sought more info. In short order, not only were they invited inside, but the elderly Mrs. Zapata had made them tea and set out a tray of snacks. Molly looked over at Sherlock with a raised brow a few minutes after their conversation picked up. He had Mrs. Zapata sitting on the edge of her seat and leaning forward in rapture as he spoke. Molly suppressed a grin. He was in full charmer mode. Not to mention, he sounded wickedly sexy as each word rolled off his tongue. Even a widow in her sixties, as she appeared to be, could be made to feel like a flighty schoolgirl around this man.

     Molly sat silently as the conversation progressed. Every once in a while she picked out a word but was lost for the most part. Then, at one point, Mrs. Zapata started to cry.

     “What’s wrong?” Molly asked.

     Sherlock gathered the woman’s hands in his and squeezed them gently. What was even more devastating than his charm? When Sherlock appeared sympathetic and caring, he could melt glaciers.

     “ _¿Qué pasó con Gerardo_?” He asked.

     Mrs. Zapata quickly recounted something which included a dramatic, jerky opening of her hands as if shaping a large ball.

     Sherlock dipped his head towards Molly. “She says her son Gerardo died earlier this year. He worked in a fireworks factory just outside the city that exploded. He died in the blast.”

     “Oh, that’s so very sad," Molly murmured. "Give her my condolences,” 

     Mrs. Zapata nodded an acknowledgement at Molly once Sherlock had communicated her commiseration. She clutched at her chest as she spoke directly to Molly with tears in her eyes and spoke quickly.

      “What did she say?” Molly whispered.

     Sherlock cleared his throat. “She knew he was gay and she didn’t care. She wished she told him so before he passed. He was . . . her heart. She misses him every single day.”

     Molly’s eyes welled with tears. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

     Sherlock didn’t need to translate that, it seemed, as some things transcended language. Mrs. Zapata fanned her face.

     “ _Gracias_.”

     Molly grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “Don’t tell her what you suspect, I beg you. Don’t taint her memories.”

     Sherlock looked sideways with a frown. “I don’t intend to do that. I have learned more than enough.”

     A half hour later, they were a few streets over hunting for a cab.

     “What did you find out then?” Molly asked.

     “I think Gerardo is responsible for Mr. Ralston’s death. I will never be able to prove it but he is the most likely candidate.”

     “Why?”

     “Well, his assault on Mr. Ralston was damning enough, but what really clinches it is the arsenic poisoning. Gerardo had worked at that fireworks factory his whole life. He started out in the production line before he moved up to supervisor. Arsenic trioxide is used in firework production as a colorant. It’s readily available in that setting in a powder form that would have been easy to slip into food.”

     Molly nodded. Still, there was the other Canadian who had suffered the same symptoms. Had Gerardo poisoned him as well or did he legitimately suffer from Yellow Fever? Perhaps they had all been out together and the second man had shared some of Mr. Ralston's food. She doubted the man would knowingly ingest poison himself. She opened her mouth to tell Sherlock but then clamped it shut again. That man might be able to offer proof of Gerardo’s guilt. What would be the point except to increase Mrs. Zapata’s suffering?

     “What is that look on your face, Molly?”

     She looked up at him. “Oh, erm, I was just thinking about how sad it all is.”

     He shrugged and exhaled a noisy breath. “It’s a dead end as well, unfortunately. I am no closer to figuring out who is harassing Mary. Damn! Three continents later and we’re back at square one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive my attempts at Spanish, by the way! I just wanted to try a few words! It's meant as love for the language because I just spent sometime in a Spanish speaking place and would love to learn to speak/write it properly.


	26. The foreshadowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurricane a comin'!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, I had an honest to goodness authentic Spanish speaking friend help me out on a few lines for this chapter instead of relying on my own shaky understanding and Senor Google (he's such a poser!). She goes by 'Meigh' on Fanfic and I sincerely thank her for her help. 
> 
> Anyways, they're leaving Colombia very quickly and this will probably be the last dose of Spanish I slip in to my story. I had a blast trying to sort it out. I hope I haven't annoyed anyone but I thought, I can't send them all the way to Columbia and then cop out and take the easy route by avoiding anything that wasn't English.

 

     She tried to steady her breath but Molly was already too excited. Sherlock’s heavy body pressed her into the mattress. His lips coaxed and teased hers as his cock hardened on her tummy. She gathered her resolve. It was now or never because at that moment, she knew he couldn’t escape. He was a master at avoiding difficult conversations and deflecting but she had him at her mercy. She turned her lips slightly and broke contact.

     “We need to talk.”

     He groaned. “Dear Lord, Molly, now?”

     Tomorrow morning they returned home to England and she had no idea where things went from there. He had said some wonderful things but they weren’t assurances of anything, just hints at feelings he didn’t seem to know how to process.

     “Yes, now,” she panted, even though she desperately wanted him buried inside her. “Just because we’re shagging, that doesn’t mean we can go on this way indefinitely. I need more. You asked me to be your girlfriend but I don’t believe you know what that means. So, I need you to scour your archives if need be. What am I to you, Sherlock?”

     He propped himself up on one elbow as he adjusted his erection with a grimace. He closed his eyes a moment. He was too gorgeous. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to hold out. His hair was tussled and wild about his head. His lips moved as if he were speaking but he was silent. She could see his eyeballs darting back and forth beneath his closed lids. Finally, he spoke aloud.

     “What do you _want_ to be?”

     She puffed a breath. “God, that’s such a-a . . . you thing to say. Can you not be _you_ for two minutes?”

     He scrunched up his face in distaste. “This is seriously going to drag on for two minutes?”

     “Or longer!”

     He sighed. “Molly, I am not being facetious when I ask for your guidance. I do not know how to have a relationship. Honestly, my thoughts teem with various experiments I might carry out every time I imagine having a significant other.”

     She frowned. “Experiments? Seriously? What kind of experiments?”

     His eyes narrowed in thought. “Well, for instance, females suffer a great hormonal imbalance during a certain time of the month. I have ideas about possible remedies . . .”

     “No!” She cringed.

     He furrowed his brow.

     “No experiments on me, ever!” She told him.

     He twisted his brows in confusion. “Even if you didn’t know it was being conducted?”

     She pursed her lips a second. His Sherlock-ness was so evident in that statement.  

     “Aarg, especially those kind. Sherlock, don’t you know what it’s like to trust someone? To never doubt them? That’s what I want from you.”

     His lips rattled as he pushed air through them. His eyes flared open as if he experienced a flash of understanding. Then his whole body shook as he inhaled.

     “Like the way you make me feel,” he mumbled.

     Molly swallowed. What a thing to say! It had the simultaneous effect of making her heart swell and break.

     Her voice wavered as she spoke. “I-I’ve thought about this, Sherlock. It’s simple. I want promises. I want you to keep them.”

     He sighed and flopped over her, resting his head on her chest. He kissed her between her breasts. His hands clutched her sides and his breaths heaved in and out. He seemed to be struggling. She didn’t know what to say to him. She braced herself for a rejection. She felt as if she walked the narrow edge of a ledge which was getting thinner all the time. Maybe this was the end of her path. Perhaps she asked too much of him.

          *   *   *

     Sherlock held on to Molly like an anchor. He felt hollowed out. He wanted to reassure her and tell her how he felt but the words wouldn’t come. He only had a very little time before he lost her forever and in his selfishness, he wanted every minute of her good opinion. He had lied and lied and lied. He had lies yet to tell.

      He swallowed but the lump in his throat refused to budge. He could not make her the kind of promise she wanted. A promise meant something. _His_ promises meant something and he wouldn’t pledge what he could not honor.

     “ _¿Qué más te puedo prometer? Ya te entregué mi alma,_ ” he murmured.

     _“What more can I promise? I already gave you my soul,”_ he repeated in his head.

     She trembled beneath him. He knew she couldn't comprehend his words. He hoped, however, she had an inkling of their intent.

     “I-I don’t understand," she whispered.

     He raised himself up to look down at the small woman. Hers was the face of his conscience. Her liquidy brown eyes reflected everything he wanted to be. He wished he was a different man, someone she deserved. He kissed her again. Her small lips parted and responded to him greedily. He deepened it momentarily before breaking away.

     “ _La única razón por la que el diablo no se me ha llevado es porque te pertenezco_ ,” he rasped.

     _“The only reason the devil hasn’t taken me is because I belong to you,”_ he echoed silently.

     She made a face. “Sherlock Holmes! You’re a royal pain.”

     He smiled sadly at her and kissed the tip of her nose. _“No puedo ofrecer nada mejor que eso.”_

_“I can offer you nothing better than that,"_ he repeated wordlessly.

“What are you s-saying? What did you say?” She asked.

      He opened his mouth. He tried to remind himself this was all for her, everything he was doing and everything he was going to do. She would hate him but he would make her safe again if it was the last thing he did.

     “Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz!”

     His phone vibrated on the hotel’s bedside table. He looked sideways at it and furrowed his brow at the name on the caller ID. John. What on earth was he calling for at this time? It was five in the morning in London.

     “Sorry, Molly, it’s John. He knows I’m away. He wouldn’t call unless it’s important.”

     She nodded quickly. “Yeah, answer it, I guess.”

     He felt a punch to the gut at the disappointed look in her eyes but also relief. Saved by an unwanted phone call!

     “John, this better be important,” he answered his cell.

     There was a pregnant pause just before he spoke. Sherlock felt the hairs stand up on the back of his head.

     “John?”

     “Ahem, hello, Mary’s gone into labor.”

     Sherlock sat up and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Relax John, relax. Don’t panic. Mary will need for you to be calm.”

     There was something else, though. He sensed it even at this great distance.

     “Something happened to Mary, Sherlock. Something bad enough to bring on her labor early. She’s a wreck. She’s terrified but she won’t tell me what happened. She begged me to take our child a-away and hide her as soon as she is b-born . . . I'm at a loss . . .”

     Sherlock felt dread stiffen his spine as Molly also sat up. He looked sideways at her.

     “What’s happened?” She whispered.

     He shook his head. “John, did she receive a package? It might seem innocuous but I need you to tell me what was in it.”

     “P-Package?” John sputtered. “N-no, she didn’t receive any package. Why would you ask that? You . . . you know something, don’t you?”

     “John, that’s not important right now. Focus on taking care of Mary and I’ll manage the rest. What can you tell me?”

     “Sherlock,” he was very angry. “So help me God, if you knew of some danger to my wife . . .”

     “John! An argument will achieve nothing right now. I need information.”

     John cursed through the poor connection. His voice faded in and out.

     “I don’t have any details. She won’t tell me but I think she had a visitor. She was so p-pale, Sherlock. She looked like she had seen a ghost.”


	27. The understudy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Molly effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I daren't speak a word! We're getting close to the end here . . . but I can't help feeling like the weather's been a bit cold and the roads are slippery . . .

     “Mary has delivered,” Sherlock murmured absentmindedly.

     Molly looked from the lights whizzing by outside the window of yet another one of Mycroft’s posh government transports to Sherlock’s grim face. They weren’t long in London, an hour tops, but it made sense Mary would have had the baby by that time. John’s call had come eighteen hours previous. After John’s frantic plea for them to return, she hadn’t slept a wink while Sherlock had disappeared to arrange for an earlier departure from Bogota. Afterwards, he had not revisited the hotel room until it had been time to leave.

     Since then they had spoke all of a handful of words to each other. Of course, they'd never been alone for more than a few seconds at a time as they’d had to fly coach on the first flight out of Bogota. She’d been sandwiched between Leem and Fil in a row near the back of the plane while Sherlock sat nearer the front.

     “Is everything alright? How are Mary and the baby?” Molly asked.

     “Healthy.”

     She whooshed a heavy breath of relief. “Details?”

     He raised a brow as he met her eyes. “What do you mean, details?”

     Molly searched his face. He was as distracted as he had been since John’s call. His expression had been vacant most of the time, but in random moments like right then, he appeared deeply disturbed as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. She frowned. He really seemed to have no idea what she meant by ‘details’.

     “Can you tell me anything more about the baby? How about Mary and the birth? Gender, weight, height . . . you know, details, Sherlock?”

      He blinked at her several times. “Why? Are those things important?”

     His voice sounded so hollow. She touched his arm. Something rippled under his skin and he shrugged her off.

     “Sherlock . . . are you okay?”

     His eyes flashed momentarily. “No, I’m not okay.”

     Molly laid her hand at the base of her throat. Those words. Those words gutted her.

     “What do you need?” She whispered.

      She shook in her seat. The overwhelming feeling of déjà vu his manner and their discourse elicited felt like a hand strangling the life out of her heart.

      He dropped a fist on the door’s arm rest. “I need not to be failing . . . ailing . . . flailing! There are not enough ‘ings’ to describe my inadequacies.”

     “Sherlock . . .”

     He held up his hand. “Please, do not attempt to assuage my ego. You of all people should be the most disappointed in my performance.”

     Molly’s eyes skittered sideways. “Erm, I have had no issues with that, like, at all . . .”

     He groaned. “Be serious, Molly.”

     She sighed. “Serious? I’m getting bloody sick of serious. Bad things happen, Sherlock, but so do good things. If all you focus on is the bad things then that’s all you’ll ever see. Mary and John just had a baby. They brought a life into this world. I just want to share in their joy. Not everyone gets to experience such things.”

      She had to look away as he studied her with a very intense look in his eyes.

     “Not everyone? Like you for example?” He asked, his words drawing out deliberately.

     Molly looked away out the window again.

     “Don’t,” she whispered, “just don’t. I can’t talk about that sort of thing with you.”

     “Why?” He asked gruffly.

    She did not think just a single syllable spoken in his deep timber could communicate so much. He sounded confused as well as a little resentful and angry. She didn’t want to look at him but her eyes were drawn back to his face in spite of herself. She felt tears form as the thought really dug into her consciousness. She was never going to have what John and Mary had, not with Sherlock. He couldn’t even take the first steps in a relationship, let alone let it develop into something that could create a family.

     Molly smiled sadly as she gazed into his beautiful face. His was the face of a thousand fantasies she’d had. He’d even fulfilled some of them but the ones she really longed for, the dreams of love, fidelity, children . . . they felt like impossible, impossible aspirations. _“Why?”_ He’d asked. Why indeed?

      “How about I repeat something I heard recently?” She said softly. “Don’t ask a questions you don’t want an answer to.”

     “Molly . . .”

     Their car pulled to a stop outside her flat. She grabbed her bag quickly and pawed at the door handle. She couldn’t stay in there a moment longer. If she did, she would bawl her eyes out. She jerked at the door again. Stupid child locks! Her face burned. So much for a dramatic exit.

      “Molly!”

     He grabbed her arm and pulled her over his lap. His mouth swooped down on hers, hot and possessive. His hands curled into her hair as he branded her with his kiss. She returned his desperation. She hung from the collar of his Belstaff and kissed him back with everything she had. Sherlock lifted his head after a few moments. His breaths pulsed hot against the skin of her face.

     “You should get as far away from me as you can if you want normal, Molly,” he said between ragged gasps.

     She blinked away tears. “I can’t. I know I should, but I can’t. I’m lashed to you. You are with me wherever I go.”

     He kissed her cheek, her nose, her brow and then brushed his lips across her temple.

     He cleared his throat and then spoke with a shaky voice. “Mary had a girl. She weighs seven pounds, two ounces and measured twenty-one inches at birth. They named her Eliza Grace. They are overjoyed, as expected, but fearful.”

     He kissed her once more on the lips. “I have to go, Molly. I need to find a way to help them.”

     She nodded. “Yes, of course.”

     “Don’t be _you_ while I’m out,” he whispered.

     “Wh-What?”

      “You are the most foolhardy and stubborn woman I have ever met. The only way I will be able to focus on my task is if you swear you will not go anywhere or do anything without Leem and Fil by your side.”

      Molly smirked up at him. “How close are they allowed to be? I’ll be bereft without you . . .”

     Heat flashed in his eyes. “They are relegated to the couch and the spare room. If Fil needs comfort, he can fetch Toby back from the kennels.”

     She wrinkled her nose. “Toby is with Anthea, actually. She wouldn’t let me put him in a kennel. I think she took a shine to him.”

     He snorted.

     “As all people tend to do with anything Hooper,” Sherlock stroked some hair back from her face. “Will you obey me on this?”

     She sputtered a laugh. “Obey?”

     He exhaled noisily. “Please, Dr. Hooper, if you find it in yourself to be reasonable, will you heed my advice? If not for my sake, for your own?”

     She stretched up and pecked him on the lips. “Yes, and that was much better, Sherlock. I have hope for you yet.”

     “A fool’s hope,” he grumbled.

     Molly patted his face. “Mm. hmm. Yes, you mock, but that’s something you’ve had to rely upon many times, Mr. Holmes. Don’t be so ready to discount it.”

              *   *   *

     Molly paced around her flat. Her eyes flicked to the clock on her kitchen wall again. It was just past midnight in London, but despite the long day, she wasn’t tired. She looked over at Leem passed out on the couch but breathing with quick, shallow inhalations. He never seemed to be all that deep in sleep, she supposed that was due to his training. Fil, however, snored like a hibernating bear from the spare room.

     As if sensing her gaze, one of Leem’s lids popped open. “Everything alright, Dr. Molly?”

     She nodded. “Yeah, I mean, yes. I’m just not tired. Ah, I want to make a couple of phone calls and use my laptop, but I don’t want to disturb you. Would you like to go lay down in my room and sleep?”

     His brow shot up. “Nah, Mr. Holmes would know I was there. I ain’t batty enough ta risk ‘is wrath just for a few winks.”

     She crossed her arms. “How would he know?”

     Leem sat up and gave her a look. One brow was raised, the other twisted slightly.

     “Is that a serious question? E’d probably know it by the imprint of the pillow fabric on me face from yer bed or somethin’.”

     Molly poked her lips out as she thought about that. “Erm, yes, I suppose that’s true.”

     Leem lumbered to his feet. “I’ll go bunk wit Fil.”

     “But there’s only a double in there.”

     He shrugged as he trudged down the hall. “Never you mind, we’s used to it. ‘Ave a good night, Dr. Molly. Let me know if ya need anythin’.”

     After he closed the door to her spare room, Molly sat down at her kitchen table and fired up her laptop. She checked her emails and to her delight, one of her colleagues informed her that Paula had awakened from her coma. She was alert but having some difficulty speaking. Molly sent a reply asking if she could visit. She made a mental note to follow up first thing next morning. Perhaps she could also visit Mary if she hadn’t yet left the hospital.

     Once she had caught up with everything, she sat at the table tapping her fingers on its surface. She felt so idle. Sherlock was out saving the world and all she could contribute to was a blog update. She opened her page and stared ruefully at it. Pink, kittens . . . no wonder everyone thought her so ridiculous. She should have something more worthy to contribute. After all, she had been the one to figure out how Anthony Ralston had died even though Sherlock had sorted out who was the most likely murderer.

     She grabbed her phone and unlocked it. Then she thumbed through her photos and found the picture she took of Dr. Rojas’ notes. She sent them via Bluetooth to her laptop and skimmed the paragraphs again to find the name of the second Canadian man. She should have discussed what she found with Sherlock but it was her discovery and she wanted to determine its significance. She wasn’t entirely without resources, either. She was perfectly capable of figuring out who this mystery man was, and what, if anything he had to do with Anthony Ralston’s death. If she did that, and had something worthy to report, maybe she could impress Sherlock. Maybe she could show him that Irene Adler wasn’t the only woman he could respect in that capacity.

     Molly found a contact in her phone. She made a mental calculation. It would be just past five pm there. She dialed his number.

     “Hello, Dr. Molly Hooper!”

     “Oh, hi, Officer Richards, how are you?”

     “Great, great! I’m stoked to hear from you. Back home, eh?”

     She chewed her lip a moment. She wasn’t entirely proud of what she was about to do, but she’d learned from the master. If she was going to get the information she sought, she would have to be a little underhanded. Manipulative, even.  

     Molly dropped her voice an octave. “Yes, it’s nice to be done with the travelling for now. Though, I have to say, I did love Canada. It held so many . . . attractions for me.”

     She could envision him grinning on the other end of the line. “It did, did it?”

     “Yes,” she drawled. “I’m thinking of visiting again, actually, but on unofficial business this time. Maybe we could even go for that drink?”

     She heard him inhale quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I’d love that.”

     Molly suppressed a grin as they flirted for a bit. Oh, Lord, what would Sherlock do if he heard her carrying on in this manner? Finally, she felt she had the smitten young Constable right where she wanted him.

     “You were so helpful to me, Devon. I wonder, if it’s not too much trouble, I need some information to help wrap up my case.”

     “Anything, Molly, anything you need!”

     She took a breath. “Could you do a little digging for me? I need some details on a Canadian man by the name of Jaques Leventreur.”


	28. The drama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I know you're going to haaaate me for this but you knew it was coming and it's about as bad as it can be. What is going to happen to our favorite pair? Paint your fingernails before you read so they'll be too bitter to chew!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I like to use names that Sir Arthur used as a bit of a way to honor his work, however, this character is not the same as his so don't read too much into my choice. After all, a rose by any other name and all that junk . . .

      “John!”

     “Molly!”

     She embraced him as he rose from the chair stationed outside Mary’s hospital room. “How is she, John?”

     John let go of her and ran hand through his hair. “Worried. Extremely anxious. Irritable. I want to help her but I don’t know how.”

     Molly looked sideways at her bodyguards. Leem and Fil shuffled off a little ways to give them privacy.

     She stumbled a moment. “Erm . . .”

     John made a sound as he pulled her aside and turned his back on the boys. “Look, I know you know some of what’s going on. Seems everyone knows something about his mess except me. Molly, look at me.”

     She chewed her lip as she returned his gaze. “I don’t know what to say.”

     “You can start by telling me what the hell is going on. You and Sherlock just decided to go on a little trip together? That’s carrying this fake girlfriend slash boyfriend thing a little far, isn’t it? What was that for, anyways? Did he ever tell you?”

     Molly dipped her head. “Yes, it was . . . semi-legitimate.”

     John snorted. “And what does it have to do with Mary?”

     Molly shook her head. “Honestly, the whole Sherlock and I dating thing doesn’t have anything to do with Mary. It was another case he’s on. I don’t think I should talk about it . . .”

     He huffed out a breath. “Well, you’ve been around Sherlock enough lately. How about you educate me about what he’s investigating for Mary and don’t tell me he’s not doing that because I know he is. I know he is! I am so pissed at him right now.”

     “John, I-I . . .” 

     John bunched his fists. He pressed one to his forehead.

     “Molly, someone has to let me in here. This is my family we’re talking about. Mine. Not yours, not Sherlock’s, no one has the right to keep information about them from me!”

     She widened her eyes. “But shouldn’t Mary tell you?”

     “She’s terrified,” he burst out and then quieted as he looked up and down the hall. “She was threatened. I-I know it was someone from her past. Did Sherlock tell you about Mary? Do you know what she used to do?”

     Molly could at least admit she was in on the secret of his wife’s former profession. “No, but I  . . .  actually, Mary told me about previous her line of work.”

     His head came back. “Mary told you? Wh-Why?”

     She took a deep breath. “Sh-She needed help with something. I happened to be in a position to do that but John, she begged me to keep in between us. I don’t feel like it’s my place contravene her wishes.”

     He slammed his fist against the wall. “Dammit, Molly!”

     His voice reverberated off the corridor walls. She looked down towards her boys. They were each ready in their “tackle” stance.

     “Oy, problem, Dr. Molly?” Fil called from a ways down the hall.

     She shook her head and waved a dismissive hand at the brothers. “It’s fine.”

     “They do any other tricks?” John mumbled.

     She looked back to him with a wan smile. “I like them, John, but don’t think for a second I wouldn’t be glad to see them go. Please, let me talk to Mary. I think I can bring her around. I don’t know anything about who threatened her or why. I’m only privy to a piece of Mary’s puzzle and it’s unrelated to her current situation. Well, I think it is. I don’t know. I really do have to talk to her.”

     He heaved in a heavy breath and glowered at her from beneath his brows. “Go. Go and talk to her, but you need to choose a side, Molly. I’m this close to cutting all ties with Sherlock and anyone else who’d support this exclusionary bullshit.”

     She nodded quickly. Lord, she was in the middle of a mess. She just hoped she could talk some sense into Mary.

     She entered Mary’s room cautiously, not knowing what would greet her but then she saw the new mother staring lovingly down at a little bundle in her arms. Molly forgot everything a moment as her eyes saw the tiny little face partially shrouded by a swaddling blanket. Tears prickled her eyes.

     “Afternoon, Mary,” she whispered.

    Mary looked up. There was a mix of sadness and joy on her face.

     “Molly! Oh, I am so glad to see you. Are you okay?”

     Molly nodded. “Of course.”

     She held out a free hand. “Come, come see her, she’s the most beautiful baby ever.”

     “I’m sure she is.”

     Mary smiled down at the little girl with her miniature features that were very reminiscent of John. There was a pale dusting of blond hair on her little scalp. Her eyes were squeezed shut beneath translucent brows and a she had a tiny little pout on her heart shaped mouth.

    “I might be biased, though,” Mary cooed. “I am her mother. Lord, can you believe that? I’m a mother.”

     “Congratulations, Mary, she is beautiful, bias or no bias.”

     A tear slipped down Mary’s face as sadness seemed to grip her suddenly. “What am I going to do, Molly?”

     Molly hugged her about the shoulders and laid her head against Mary’s briefly as she gazed down at little Eliza Grace.

     “You’re going to take care of this baby,” she said. “Sherlock and I are going to sort this situation out for you.”

     Mary shook her head violently and looked up at Molly. Her eyes reminded Molly of a frightened animal penned in a corner.

     “No, you must forget everything I told you. I don’t want you to look at anything else and you must convince Sherlock to drop it as well. I tried to tell him as much when he came to visit and fill me in on my father’s death, but he wouldn’t listen.”

     Molly’s mouth hung open. “I think I’d have an easier time convincing him the world is flat.”

     Mary clutched her little girl close and started crying. Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed.      

     “Then we are all of us, dead,” she sputtered between cries. “No one will be spared.”

     Molly reached for a chair and pulled it up to the side of the bed so she could sit down. “Mary, listen to me. If that’s the situation which I don’t believe it is, then there’s no use in hiding the truth anymore.”

     “No, he said if I co-operated and gave him what he wanted, he’d leave us all alone” she choked out.

     Molly felt a frown spread across her face. Nothing involving villains was ever that simple.

     “Oh, yeah, because bad guys forgive and forget? Um, I think the lid’s off Pandora’s box. It probably was the moment you enlisted Sherlock. You need to come clean. For starters, who threatened you?”

     Mary blinked up at Molly with tears running freely down her face. Eliza sputtered and let out a little wail. Mary rocked her gently.

     “My husband,” she whispered.

     Molly tilted her head. Her whole face warped in confusion. She must be hallucinating.

     “J-John threatened you?”

     Mary shook her head. “No, not John. My first husband, from when I was Agatha Ralston, has found me. Good God, he wants something I just don’t have nor the first clue to where it might be. He said he’d spare us all, and go away, if I just told him where to find it.”

     Molly’s breath stopped. She knew then why Mary wouldn’t want to tell John. He’d be heart broken.

     “Oh, Mary,” she whispered, “and you never told John?”

     “That he wasn’t my first? Who wants to hear something like that? Besides, I thought I was free and clear of Sebastian. A job we were on went really bad, like off the rails bad. That’s when I made my escape from the CIA. My husband was grievously injured and dumped out at sea. I saw my chance to escape from him and the CIA and all of it. I disappeared and let them think I had been disposed of as well.”

     “Your first husband’s name is Sebastian?”

     “Well I knew him as Sebastian Moran. He’s a nasty piece of work. He’s got fingers in nearly every underhanded organization in the world yet the CIA thinks he’s working for them or . . . they did. I don’t know. I’ve been out of that world for a long time. Maybe he has too. ”

     “And you said he wants something? What is it?”

     Mary’s lips turned down. “He seems to think my father left behind some sort of jewel stash worth millions but I don’t know where he would get that idea. I mean, I never heard of such a thing. If I had, I certainly wouldn’t have joined the CIA. I would have cashed in a long time ago.”

     Molly thought about everything Mary had told her. She needed to pass this information along.

     “Have you told all this to Sherlock?”

     “I didn’t tell him about Sebastian. I had no idea who was sending me those pearls in the beginning, although it seems painfully obvious now. I thought Sebastian was dead and it was somebody else from my past who had found me. If I had suspected it was him I wouldn’t have involved Sherlock. Sebastian is a predator. He’s relentless and resourceful. The only way to avoid him is to stay out of his territory. If you go looking for him, he’ll kill you. God, I’ve brought this upon everyone. John is going to hate me.”

     Molly clasped her hand. “Impossible. Mary, he loves you. You must tell him and trust him to take care of you two. I am going to go find Sherlock. He needs to know about this. You have to see that now, right?”

     Mary nodded. “Yes, I do. God, be careful, Molly. Don’t let your guard down for a second.”

     Molly kissed Mary and then little Eliza on the cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ve got backup.”

               *   *   *

     "Just give me a minute, fellas," Molly called down to the lobby of Baker Street. "I'll pop in and then right back out."

     She heard them murmur from down below. They were too busy stuffing their faces on Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. She flipped through the keys on her key ring and found the one to Sherlock’s flat. He wasn’t answering his phone, and it seemed he wasn’t home either. So, she thought she’d leave a note. At least then, she’d have covered all bases. 

     The moment she stepped in his flat, though, something felt off. Of course, it was never clean but it looked as if someone had just finished tea and hadn’t bothered to put it away. Then she noticed his jacket in a pile on the floor. She picked it up and slung it over his chair. She set her bag down next to it.

     She felt a tingle creep up her spine. He never went anywhere without his coat.

     She looked down the hall towards his bedroom. She stepped over a discarded belt as she approached his door. Then she heard his muffled voice. She sighed. He was home after all.

     “Sherlock, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you . . .”

     Her words died on her lips as she pushed open the door to his room.

     Irene Adler, wearing not much more than a camisole and knickers straddled Sherlock on the bed. His shirt was undone and untucked from his pants. Her hands were splayed out over his chest. Sherlock’s head jerked up as he saw Molly while Irene’s head turned and she gave her a grin.

     “Come to join us?” She asked.

     “Molly!” Sherlock sat up.

     She froze. Her eyes scanned the scene again but there was no mistaking what was going on. She’d just walked in on her worst nightmare.


	29. The aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, if you're following my angst trend here, you'll have think this thing just peaked and we're in a slew. However, there's an uptick at the end of the chapter. Things couldn't get more angst-y, could they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive Molly, she says a few things here in the heat of the moment! Any other time, I'm sure she would be more diplomatic but, well, high emotions . . .

**  
**

Molly stood with her fingers shaking at her sides. She felt a bit stuck like her feet had been sucked into wet sand. Cold waves licked at her ankles and spread upwards. Her face tingled. She was sure there was no blood left in it and her skin was as white as a bleached shell.

     As cold as she felt, she couldn’t even say she was all that surprised by what she had stumbled upon. She looked away from Irene’s preening face as she crawled off Sherlock and reached for her clothing. Molly settled her gaze on Sherlock as he prepared to leap out of the bed and pinned him with her glower. She didn’t know how to interpret the look on his face but she wouldn’t say he read guilty. He had an anxious look of anticipation on his face as if he were waiting to see how she’d react.

     “Molly, I can . . . _explain?_ ” his voice sounded flat

     Life returned to her fingers. She had but a moment to decide what she was going to do. The old, clueless Molly would have run crying from the flat, but she wasn’t that simple girl anymore. She was . . . Sherlock’s girlfriend. So, how would Sherlock’s girlfriend react to this?

     Well, that part was easy. Another woman was trying to claim what was hers. Sherlock’s girlfriend was fucking pissed.

     “What’s going on here?” She asked between her teeth.

     Irene slipped into a pencil skirt and zipped it up. She parted her lips, then smiled and shrugged.

     “Oh, sorry about that. I was attempting to seduce your beau.”

     Molly felt a spasm in her eyelid. “Attempting?”

     Irene wrinkled her nose and sighed noisily. “Mm, that depends. Does he have a new medical issue I am unaware of?”

     Molly watched Sherlock’s brow arch as he looked sideways at Irene and buttoned his shirt. “What are you talking about?”

     Irene made a face as she looked down the length of him. “Please, what was I supposed to do with that? Fold it in?”

     Molly’s eyelid fluttered as she tried to control her anger. She didn’t want to hear anymore.

     “I need to go break something,” she muttered.

     She turned and stalked down the hall towards the living room. Her eyes prickled with unshed tears. She searched his living room through a watery haze. She was finding it nearly impossible to hold it together.

     Then she spied the skull.

     It was the skull of a serial murderer Sherlock had nabbed who had subsequently died of a heart attack while awaiting trial. She had meticulously cleaned and preserved that stupid skull for him and then presented it as a keepsake one day at the lab. He hadn’t said one word. He’d just taken it with a confused look on his face and set it down again. She picked up the morbid memento just as he jogged into the living room. She found herself irrationally angry at its insipid grin.

     His eyes widened as he reached out. “Molly! Don’t!”

     Her hand trembled as her resolve wavered. Then Irene followed behind him with a smirk.

     “Uh, oh, the little woman is mad!”

     “Molly, just put it down, please.”

     She shook her head. “No, tell me what’s going on!”

     He furrowed his brow. He glanced at Irene as his mouth hung open a moment. Then his eyes restricted as he thought about something and his gaze returned with a wrinkle of concentration above it in his forehead.

     “Didn’t she just explain that?" He asked slowly. "She was attempting to seduce me.”

     “But why?”

     Irene laughed. “Why? Why not? He does things to me-”

     Molly waved a hand at her. “Shut up! Just, shut up already, you . . . you rotten harpy! I don’t care about your reasons for doing anything. I really don’t. You are a t-terrible person. There’s just nothing to like about you and nothing good that ever comes out of your mouth so please, just be fucking quiet for two minutes or better yet, forever. Like, if you never said another word to me, it would be too soon. No, Sherlock, the question was for you. Why were you letting her try to seduce you?”

     “Molly, now’s not the time for this discussion . . .”

     Her hold tightened on the skull. “Oh, now’s the time.”

     He poked his lips out a moment then shook his head. “Ah, no, it’s really _not_.”

     “Oh, come on now, Sherlock. This is fun!” Irene said with a smile. “Maybe I should get her that riding crop from your closet.”

     Molly fumed. “Oh, my God. To hell with both of you.”

     She took one last look at the skull and then hurled it down on the tile surround of the fireplace. Pieces of it flew everywhere. Silence fell over the flat for a moment.

     She glared up at Sherlock who stared at the broken skull with a slack, kind of disappointed little boy’s look on his face. His hair was still a bit messy and his shirt was only half-tucked back into his pants. Her chest began to feel as if a band tightened around it. Old Molly returned with a vengeance as the fight left her body and her shoulders slumped. She could only play the part of a vengeful harpy for so long. It was draining.

     She was sick of the lies. There was such a cloud of them that she couldn’t even pick out a recognizable form or pattern in them anymore.

     Her eyes met Sherlock’s one last time as tears rolled down her cheeks. “We’re through. Sherlock. We’re done.”

     His nostrils flared and his lips pressed together. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Everything about his stance spoke of a rebellion, as if he wanted to argue. He took a breath and held it for a moment.

     “Fine. It’s just as well,” he muttered. “This wasn’t really working for me anyways.”

     Molly took a deep, shaky breath. She had to hold it together. “You’re right. It wasn’t working for me either. I don’t know why I ever thought I could trust you. You’re a liar, Sherlock Holmes. You’re a sorry liar. I don’t care what you said. You never loved me.”

     A flicker of uncertainty danced across his features. She watched his eyes dart to one side and he tilted his head. Then they widened as if something dawned on him. He clapped his mouth shut and steeled his features as Irene's gaze flitted to him.

     “Are we quite finished?” He asked, his fingers quivering at his sides.

     She dashed tears from her cheeks. “I’m done.”

     *   *   *

     “Dr. Hooper?”

     Molly looked in the direction of Mycroft’s voice as he approached the bench she sat on in Regent’s park looking out over Boating Lake. His hand shielded his face from the bright sun.

     She sighed and hugged her knees tighter to her chest. “How did you find me?”

     He stepped under the tree that shaded her seat, stopped just shy of the bench and looked around the park. “Oh, I never really lose people under my protection. Leem and Fil, for all their idiotic façade, are quite good. They’re right over there. You didn’t really think you gave them the slip, did you?”

     Molly looked in the direction of his gaze. Leem and Fil leaned against the trunk of a large oak about fifty yards away gesticulating animatedly to each other. She exhaled noisily. So much for a bit of solitude.

     “May I sit, Dr. Hooper?”

     She gestured to the bench. “Be my guest.”

     He sat down and laid his umbrella between them. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he stared down at it a moment. Then, he seemed to change his mind, picked it up and hooked it well out of her reach over the arm of the bench.

     “What do you need?” She asked. "And be quick, I'm really not in the mood to interact with a Holmes right now."

     “Actually, I’m here to pick you up at Sherlock’s request,” Mycroft wrinkled his nose and urged a curious pigeon away with his foot. “But I do, in fact, need some information. Well . . . more like confirmation.”

     Of course, all she wanted to do was be alone and wallow in her misery but she could never be that lucky.

     “Mm, hmm. About?” She said in a strangled voice.

     “You had a discussion with Mary Watson the other day about someone, someone from her past.”

     Molly huffed a laugh. “Yes. So?”

     “The man’s name, please? That’s what you were bent on discussing with Sherlock, was it not? You may as well skip the middle man and tell me directly.”

     She searched his face. “If I tell you, will you promise it won’t come back on Mary?”

     Mycroft chuckled. “My dear, I don’t give a damn about Mary Watson. I have no designs on locking her up or exposing her dirty little secrets. She’s really unimportant to me as a matter of fact.”

     Molly made a face. “You’re a heartless bastard, Mr. Holmes.”

     He smirked. “I try to be. It’s a lot less messy than having one, don’t you think? So, what can you tell me? Do try to be concise. I have things to do.”

     Molly rolled her eyes. “She said the man was her husband from her former life. His name is Sebastian Moran.”

     Mycroft sighed heavily and looked out over the park with disdain. “Mm, and is that the only name she gave you?”

     “Yes. Why? Is that not helpful?”

     He looked over at her with raised brows. “No, not really. Sebastian Moran doesn’t exist. He’s a ghost. I’m trying to catch a real person.”

     “Well, I don’t think he’s trying all that hard to hide, Mr. Holmes. I’m surprised you haven’t caught him already.”

     Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dr. Hooper, even if I could physically find Mr. Moran, which is nearly impossible given what I know about his skill set, I cannot arrest him or kill him as I am want to do. Nor can I get the Americans to do so either even though he has also become a huge problem for them. He knows too many of our secrets. He’s ensured his immortality.”

     “Why are you looking for him at all then?”

     “Well, he nearly murdered one of our agents recently,” he said blandly then flicked his fingers at her, “and you as well, I suppose. The agent I could have overlooked, but my then he had to go and disturb my little brother when he was playing so nicely. Do you know how hard it is to get Sherlock to behave? He needs his playthings.”

     She bristled. If she wasn't feeling so emotionally exhausted, she'd smack his face.

     “I don’t think I care for your descriptions, you conceited arse,” Molly pressed her lips together for a tick as she gazed towards the armrest. “Is that a new umbrella? It would be a shame if it ended up at the bottom of the lake.”

     Mycroft snatched the umbrella up and clutched it tightly. “Good luck removing it from my grasp this time!”

     Molly blinked slowly at him then looked deliberately at Leem and Fil and then back to Mycroft. She tilted her chin down and twitched her brows.

     “Good luck holding onto it.”

     He huffed and clenched his teeth. “Never mind. I am sorry that I implied you were a plaything.”

     Molly’s breath caught. Funny, even though she resented his description, she felt like one. Before she knew it, she sniffed and then dropped her face into her hands. A sob wracked her small frame.

     “Oh, dear Lord. Don’t cry, Dr. Hooper.”

     She turned away from him but the dam had burst. Next thing she knew, he had moved along the bench and dangled a tissue in front of her face.

     His voice had dropped an octave and lost its edge. “Please, Dr. Hooper, um, . . . M-Molly. There is no need to be upset. I know you just witnessed something unpleasant but from what Sherlock texted me, I thought you understood it was a ruse. He’s accused me of double dealings but you figured it out on your own, didn’t you?”

     She looked up at him and nodded vigorously.

     “Oh, I am not stupid, Mr. Holmes. That was a little too perfect of an act begging for a scene to happen,” she sputtered. “I had been trying to get a hold of him for over an hour. I all but announced my pending arrival with a bullhorn. There was no way he didn’t know I was going to stumble upon their little tryst. Especially since his phone was sitting right next to him on the bedside table and Sherlock is nothing if not obsessive about being in the loop.”

     “Yes, mm, just to satisfy my curiosity, how did you deduce what was really going on?”

     She hiked a brow and curled her lip. “What? Do you think you two have cornered the market on deduction? Or are you so blinded by your own gifts you can’t recognize intelligence in others? Sorry if I haven’t been as flashy but that’s not really my style. Although, I didn’t have to deduce much. I had practical experience with Sherlock when he’s aroused. It’s not something he can easily hide.”

     Mycroft held up his hands. “Oh, God. I think this is the first time I have really understood the colloquial expression, 'tmi'. Ug . . . so, Doctor, if you know he was being insincere in playing along with Ms. Adler, why are you so upset?”

     Molly felt her head waver as she stared at him. She sniffed again.

     “Because I don’t understand why he thinks he needs to lie to me. I could help him if he could only trust me.”

     Mycroft averted his eyes. “Oh, that.”

     He slipped an old-fashioned gold watch out of his pocket and checked the time. Then he tapped his fingers against his side for a few seconds as he contemplated something. After seemingly coming to some sort of decision, he retrieved a mobile from the other pocket and dialed a number.

     “If you give me a moment, Dr. Hooper, I have a story to tell you,” he said as he awaited an answer. “Anthea, could you be so kind as to postpone my next meeting? Also, I will need an additional security team at Regent’s park.”

     Molly let out an irritated huff as he pressed end on the mobile and tucked it away again. “Please, I’ll behave. I don’t need any more bodyguards.”

     Mycroft laughed and tapped his umbrella on the ground beneath his feet. “Oh, they’re not for you. They’re protection for me, from Sherlock.”


	30. The tribulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes life tests us. True love should be selfless. I hope Molly demonstrates that here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, before you hurl your electronic devices at the wall, remember that Mae Jones does not do unhappy endings. I won't have it! All hearts are broken in my fics but then, I repair them. How will this all play out? You'll just have to see.

  

    “I’m waiting.”

     Although, despite her prod, Molly wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear what Mycroft was about to say. She looked over at him with concern. He seemed troubled. His shoulders curved inwards and he frowned out across the water. She took a breath and tried to prepare for what she was going to learn. There had been a light breeze blowing in the park but the air had since stilled. It was as the universe itself held its breath.

     “Forgive me, Molly. I need a moment. May I call you by your first name? I feel as if we should be on more familiar terms.”

     “Um, okay, M-Mycroft.”

    He looked over at her and then nodded absentmindedly. “I think I have finally stopped underestimating you. You love my brother, don’t you?”

     Her face warmed and her tongue caught as she tried to answer. She had never admitted that out loud before.

     “Y-yes, I do. Very much.”

     He swallowed and the cleared his throat. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate the depth of your feelings, nor your character, but both became apparent when Sherlock texted and informed me what you had done. In probably one of the worst moments imaginable, you were still loyal to him. You played along as the aggrieved girlfriend, even when you could have exposed his ploy.”

     She rounded her eyes as if surprised by herself. “Believe me, it wasn’t hard to be aggrieved but it took every ounce of strength I had to leave him there with her. He’s not off the hook, okay?”

     “I can appreciate that.”

     Molly scrutinized him. “Unless you can tell me something to absolve him?”

     He sputtered a laugh but then his lips turned down. “Not really, I-I think I can trust you and your feelings, though, but you must promise me what I am about to divulge will not be repeated to anyone, ever. I am taking a big risk in telling you.”

     Her throat tightened as she watched him blink and a bright sheen glossed over his eyes. Uncertainty rippled through his expression.

     “I risk losing my brother, you understand?”

     All she could do was nod. He wiped moisture from his eyes. Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman. She gulped in air. Her heart hammered against her chest. Blood whooshed a punishing beat in her ears. Her mind started racing.

     _“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to._ _Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to. Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to. . .”_

     As if sensing her panic, Mycroft's voice steeled in reassurance. “This isn’t going to be easy to hear but you are strong enough, Molly Hooper. You have to be. My brother needs you.”

     Again, she nodded. So, he told her a story while she stared vacantly out over the water on the most gorgeous day in recent memory. Around her, while her heart shattered, kids shrieked, small dogs yapped as they passed each other on the walkways and pigeons cooed and warbled as they all went about their business. She listened but every word that issued from his lips sounded increasingly distant and echoed between her ears as if her insides had hardened and hollowed and transformed into an abandoned tube station.

     He told her of man who’d rescued a damsel in distress several years ago out of a sense of guilt over having left her vulnerable. He explained that that man, a sometimes addict, had made the mistake of indulging in an old habit of his and awoke the next morning in the damsel’s bed. It was a mistake he could not take back as later that year, a little boy with dark hair and a supernatural intelligence, evident right from birth, was born.

      Molly knew if she stood right then, she would collapse. She hiccuped and forced down a rise of bile. Sherlock had a son with Irene Adler. She pounded her chest with her fist as her stomach turned over and she almost wretched.

      “I-I-I,” she blinked back a flood of tears, “I assume the parentage was c-conf-firmed?”

     Mycroft dipped his head. “Yes. We had one of our most trusted technicians, someone we use for all such sensitive matters, verify the DNA results. The little boy, Auguste, is Sherlock’s.”

     A burst of hope she'd had flickered and died. There was no disputing a DNA match. She held her hand to her chest as Mycroft filled in a few more blanks. Each breath she took felt like an acidic vapor. The sheer effort it took to sit and listen was almost more than she could bear. Of course it had to be kept a secret from everyone. There had been Moriarty and his network to deal with, and it became clear that Sherlock's two year mission was so much more personal than Molly had ever realized. The little boy had needed the protection of anonymity. 

     Molly’s hand covered her mouth as she had a realization. “Oh, m-my, God! He’s trying to find him. That’s what all this subterfuge is about. Oh, Christ!”

     Mycroft nodded. “We don’t think my nephew is in immediate danger but Irene has stashed him away somewhere and there’s no telling what her new friend could do if he finds out about the boy. That is, if he doesn't already know.”

     It was hard to shake off the crush of self-pity she was feeling, but guilt found its way into her psyche nonetheless. There had been so much more to what he had been doing, and now she was distressed for having distracted him from something this important. She felt Mycroft’s penetrating gaze on her face.

      “You know why he wanted this kept from you, though, don’t you?”

     “I understand,” her voice was barely audible. “The less people who knew, the better . . .”

     “Well, that may factor in a small measure but I think what he really feared is your reaction.”

     Molly turned her face fully in his direction. Mycroft had a look of anxiousness tinged with more than a little fear himself. She knew she must look a fright. She was probably all splotchy. Her face felt warm and cold and even wet in spots. Her nose tingled.

     Mycroft sucked in a breath. “What is your reaction, Molly? Are you angry? Disappointed? Hurt? Tell me something, please. If I have turned you against  
Sherlock, he will never forgive me.”

     She clasped her shaking hands together and looked down. Her lip trembled. She was a little of all those things. She couldn’t help feel robbed of a few selfish dreams but most of all . . . her eyes burned as she thought about Sherlock and how it must have felt to lose control of his future and the dread he must be experiencing over the safety of Auguste. She thought back over the times she had dogged him with questions and bore witness to what she knew now was an incredible burden. How alone he must have felt.

     Molly’s chest shuddered with a sob as she lifted her gaze to Mycroft’s. If he felt this anxious in anticipating her answer, she could imagine what Sherlock suffered. How could she resent him for making his son a priority over her feelings?

     “I am . . . I am . . . so incredibly heartbroken . . . f-for him.”

     She leaned over then and clutched her stomach as the full weight of everything squashed down. Between her gasps, she heard Mycroft let out a long breath and then his hand was on her back. He patted her gently until what seemed like an age passed and her sobs subsided. Somehow, she ended up with her head leaned against him and his arm around her shoulders.

     “So, you don’t hate Sherlock?”

     “F-for such a smart man, you ask a very stupid question. No, of course I-I don’t hate him. If anything, I love him more. I wish there was something I could do.”

     Then, as if the universe decided to respond to the wish, a breeze picked up again and the phone in her jacket pocket vibrated. She ignored it for a moment and then pulled it from her pocket when it buzzed again. She read and re-read the massages she received. She sat straight up.

     “What is it?” Mycroft’s hold slackened.

     She frowned down at her phone’s screen. “I-I’m not sure.”

     However, an idea began to form and take root. She chewed her lip. Her misery would have to be put on hold. Mycroft was right. Sherlock needed her.

     “Maybe a way to solve at least one problem.”


	31. The digression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on!
> 
> But then the odd commercial break comes on and we briefly change the channel. Whoops, gotta be careful couch surfing after nine at night, kiddies (though prime time isn't all that safe either from what I've learned)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect his head to come easily out of its hiding place. It's quite far up his arse so the most he'd let me get away with is a partial extraction in this chapter (the insufferable git). Molly is much more forgiving but then she's been snake-charmed.

 

     Molly peaked through the peep hole of her apartment door. Her heart fluttered like a fledgling bird. She hadn’t seen Sherlock since the day before when she had left him in the clutches of Irene. He was standing out there looking, well, completely unsure of himself. He didn’t entirely face the view port, she could only see his profile with his chin dipped behind his upturned collar. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. She covered her mouth a moment. She didn’t know if she could pull this off but she would have to try.

     Mycroft’s voice rang in her ears.

     _“Sherlock can’t know about our plan. If he does, he won’t let you do it.”_

_“Do you think so?”_

_“I know so. Molly, you will have to lie to him.”_

_“Really?" She asked sardonically. "The way to fix this situation is with more lies?”_

_“Yes. Will you be able to do that?”_

_She sighed. “Erm, I’ve had a few good lessons in the art of deceit lately, I suppose, and I guess it wouldn’t hurt for him to have a taste of his own medicine.”_

_Mycroft laughed. “And you won’t tell him that you know about Auguste yet?”_

_“You want me to conceal that as well? Is it necessary?”_

_“Personally, I would appreciate some more time. It will be easier to pull our little charade off if he’s not focussed on making my life a living hell.”_

_“Yeah, I guess so.”_

_“Then we are agreed?”_

_“Oh, Lord. This had better work.”_

_“That, my dear, is wholly dependent on you.”_

Molly looked over at Leem and Fil as they played cards. “Well, fellas, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

     Leem’s head sprang up. “What? Why?”

     “Yeah, I’m beatin’ ‘im for once,” Fil protested.

     Leem huffed. “Not fer long, you weren’t.”

     She suppressed a smile. “You see, Sherlock is here and I have a need to distract him. I don’t think you want to be here for that.”

      They looked at each other with saucer eyes.

     “Right!”

     The brothers grabbed their jackets and barreled out the door just as she opened it. Sherlock watched them disappear down the hall with a quizzical look on his face.

     “Where are they off to in such a hurry?”

     Molly shrugged. “I think there’s a game on at the pub.”

     Which wasn’t entirely a lie. There was always a game on somewhere.

     They stood there for a moment looking at each other. Molly breathed in and out of her nose slowly. It all felt surreal as if she were being pulled in several directions. She really just wanted to cry, and maybe slap him very hard, and then perhaps tear his clothes off. She turned away from the door and gestured into her flat. She looked at her toes and reminded herself that she was going to have avoid the subject of Irene Adler or she’d end up going all supernova on his ass.

     “C-come in.”

     He walked into her flat and then turned on his heel after she shut the door. He looked confused. A crease marred the space between his eyes. He squinted a moment as he studied her and then opened his mouth. She wondered what he had been anticipating.

     “Ahem, I . . .”

     She looked up at him expectantly. She folded her arms and hugged them closer to her middle. Self-doubt ate away at her pretense. Any moment, she was going to implode and reach critical mass. She wordlessly pleaded with him not to pile another lie onto the suffocating load. Right then, she needed something to believe in.

     He cleared his throat. “I came to apologize.”

      She froze. She hadn’t expected him to say that. Her eyes began to sting as her blinking mechanism failed.

     He scratched his brow and took a step before he twisted sideways and pressed his hands together. He raised them to just under his nose and took a deep breath. Then he looked sideways at her.

     “Speak, please.”

     She lifted her chin a fraction. “I’m w-waiting.”

     “For?” He lifted a brow.

     She wrinkled her nose. “The apology, you prat. You haven’t given it.”

     He blinked at her a couple of times. His hair bounced as he dropped his chin suddenly. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He stepped towards her with his gaze downcast until he was only a few inches away. Then, he raised his jaw and their eyes met. His were large and just a little frightened as he looked down at her apprehensively. Oh, that pretty much undid her right then. Her lip quivered and her corneas smarted. She shook her head at him and silently begged him not to make her cry.

     Then, unexpectedly, he slunk down to his knees with his eyes fixed to her face the entire descent. Her mouth drooped open as she watched his face pass in front of hers on the way down.

     “I-I am sorry,” he whispered hoarsely from the floor. “I am sorry.”

     She hiccupped a cry as she looked down at him. His eyes darted back and forth as he studied her reaction. His lips parted a fraction before he spoke.

     “You could have torpedoed me, Molly. You could have undone everything I have been working towards and I would have only had myself to blame,” his voice rasped and he laid a hand on his chest. “You have no idea just how much what you did means to me. Th-thank you.”

      Molly tentatively reached for his face but stopped shy of grasping it. Her hands hovered either side of his prominent cheeks. Her fingers trembled. She wanted to tell him that she knew about him and Irene and their child and that it didn’t matter (even though it mattered a whole fucking lot). She wanted to tell him that she loved him but she couldn’t form the words. She didn’t know how she fit into his life anymore. Everything he’d done made her wonder if he really wanted to add her to the mix or was just desperately trying to scare her off.

     “Sherlock, you know you can tell me a-anything. Anything at all,” she said softly.

     A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I do know that. F-forgive me, Molly, for not giving you enough credit but I am a selfish, self-absorbed ass who thrives on your esteem. I have become . . . addicted to the way you look at me.”

      His eyes scanned over her features. He exhaled slowly and then sucked in a breath.

      “Like the way you are looking at me now.”

     She relented with a frustrated sigh and finally cupped his face. Her fingers fanned out over his cheeks. He closed his eyes as her thumbs smoothed over his brows. He turned his head slightly and kissed the inside of her palm. A bubble formed in her chest and she nearly crumpled as it threatened to turn into an embolism. He was heart-breaking, gorgeous, and for the moment, hers. He was there with her when he could be anywhere else. That meant something.

     His pale eyes opened again and he looked up at her with trepidation. “I am sorry. Have I said that? You asked for a promise. I will make one now. I promise to fully explain what role Irene plays in my life. I have no right to ask it of you, but I would like more time before I do that. I-I need your good opinion for a little while longer, Molly.”

     She tightened her hold on his face until she was almost squeezing his lips into a pout. She gave him a shake.

     “Listen to me, you dummy,” she breathed. “You will always have it.”

     He opened his mouth and she leaned down to kiss him to stop the protest she knew perched on the edge of his lips. When she pulled away again, his face was so open with admiration she wanted to weep.

     “Always, a-always, Sherlock Holmes.”

     He was on his feet in the next second. He sloughed off his jacket and hauled her into his arms. His mouth devoured hers as if a lifetime had passed in between the last time they’d kissed. He pushed her cardigan off her shoulders as she yanked open his shirt. His hands were under her tee and spanned her waist in a heartbeat. She fought with his belt clasp, yanking his hips towards her a couple times before he laughed against her mouth.

     “You are always so keen to rush things,” he murmured.

     “I’m . . . famished,” she admitted.

     He kissed her again, his lips parted hers with a groan and he slipped his tongue into her mouth. Molly plunged her fingers into his hair, curled them into its thick softness and mashed her lips even harder against his. Between hungry kisses, articles of clothing flew from them like riders ejected from an overspun merry-go-round. In short order, they were naked and Sherlock had her backed up against the couch in her living room.

     “We are not going to make it to your bedroom,” he observed, his eyes narrowed as he studied their respective positions.

     “I’m good with that.”

      “Mm hmm,” he said with a smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

     He kissed her again and urged her down to the couch until she was sunk into the cushions and stared up at him. Then he was on his knees again but for an entirely different purpose. He leaned forward and kissed her before trailing his plush lips along her jaw and down her neck. His hands cupped her breasts and elegant fingers stroked over her nipples as he half-kissed, half suckled the pulse at the base of her neck. Her breaths dragged in and out of her chest. Fire licked along the nerves in her body.

     “God, I want to mark you,” he muttered against her neck. “I don’t think you can ever fully appreciate the insanity that grips me knowing you are being protected by two men who think you hung the moon.”

     Molly moaned. “Oh, you don’t? I was raging yesterday, Sherlock. If that had gone on one second longer, the skull smashed might have been a living one.”

      He licked and nibbled at her collar. She felt him pull in a deep breath. One hand found its way between her thighs while the other cupped the back of her neck. Just as his fingers delved into her cleft, his mouth sucked hard onto the side of her throat. Her hips jerked against him as she felt a tingling sensation where he was staking his claim.

     She let out a cry. The pinch and sting from that patch of skin mixed with the way her nipples rubbed against his body and the spurts of sensation he elicited from her nerve center made her come unglued. Each breath was a whimper from her lips. Her insides tightened as she felt a surge through her sex and she became very wet.

     He came up for air several moments later only to kiss her again and stifle the mewling from her lips. His hands found her thighs and he pulled her bum to the edge of the couch. She felt his hard cock push up against her core. She was beyond ready for him. She wrapped her arms and legs around him as one hand slid under her bum and the other rubbed his member up against her clit until it too was slick. Then, he urged her forwards as he pushed the broad head of his shaft into her body.

     “Oh, mmf, yes!” She panted.

     This part. The penetration of her body by him. The foreign, overwhelming, impossible fit of his wide girth was her favorite moment each and every time they coupled. More than anything, this feeling, this stretch and possession made her feel like she belonged to him. She rested her head alongside his and anchored herself with fistfuls of his hair until she was fully seated on his hips and she could feel him embedded so deep within her body her womb felt like a balloon that could burst.

     His fingers stroked under her thighs.

     “Have I ever told you how tight you are? How good you feel wrapped around me?” He mumbled into her ear.

     She couldn’t even speak. She just clenched around him and let out a trembling breath. His hips lurched in reaction.

     “Huuuh. Molly, dear God.”

     He began stroking in and out of her. She tilted her hips up to accept even more of him and secured herself better on his shoulders so she could match each of his thrusts. Soon, she just clung to him as his rod plummeted in and out of her channel. Her clit rubbed up against his torso with each pump and every time, a jolt coursed through her insides. The rub of their heated bodies against each other had each of them damp with sweat and slipping as they tried to hold onto one another. Soon, the strain of her pending orgasm had every muscle in her body quivering. Her legs began to turn to jelly. She couldn’t bear it.

     “Damn, Molly, I can’t hold off . . .”

     As Sherlock grunted and grasped onto her tightly, she came along with him. She didn’t know whose pulses belonged to whom. His body seemed to twitch in tune with hers as she clamped and unclamped along his shuddering length. She had never experienced that before, a simultaneous release. Each ebb and flow of it sent tingles through her whole body.

     After he had thoroughly spent himself, he let the couch take her weight as he rested his arms either side her body. He leaned forward and kissed her, nipped at her lip and sort-of half-moaned, half chuckled.

     “That was . . . mm . . . never mind. I have no words . . .”

     Molly reached a hand to her neck. Sherlock’s head tilted over to look where her fingers lingered. His lips formed a bit of an ‘o’.

     “What?” She asked with a frown.

     His eyes skittered sideways and then he licked his lips.

    “Um, nothing,” he gestured with a swirling point as if trying to think of what to say, his voice was a little high pitched, “just a faint . . . tinge of colour.”

     Molly scooted from beneath him and stood up so she could inspect for herself in the mirror above the couch. Her face positively flamed at the sight of an oval, deep red, almost purple . . . _hickie!_ . . . about the width of a 5 pence coin mid-way down her neck.

     “Sherlock!” She cried.

    He stood up and gathered her back against him. He dropped his head and placed a kiss alongside the mark. She shot him daggers in the mirror as he suppressed a smirk.

     “Sorry, I can lend you my scarf if you like.”

     Try as she might, she couldn’t prevent the smile that tugged at the corners of her own lips.

     “You sir, are a complete scoundrel.”

     “And you, madam, are a wanton hussy.”


	32. The pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am being deliberately cagey in this one so you don't figure it out completely. Also, oh, Leem, you are in trouble, boy!

     Being Sherlock Holmes was really hard.

     This is what Molly was beginning to realize as she rubbed her hands over her face after three days of traipsing around as a wannabe consulting detective for Mycroft, her new BFF, while trying not to alert his little brother’s suspicions. She didn’t know how Sherlock could do what he did on a regular basis. She cricked her neck as she stared down at her second set of lab results that the mass spectrometer had spit out from the printer. They read the same as the first test. She groaned and laid her head down on the bench. The levels weren’t where she wanted to see them. They were barely above thresholds needed to determine non-incidental contamination. In other words, at these concentrations, even the most inexperienced boob could argue that the chemical exposure could have come from any source.

     She bopped her head on the surface of the bench a couple times and then sighed. She needed to put it away and focus on something else for a bit or she’d go bonkers.

     “You alright, Dr. Molly?” Leem asked from across the lab.

     She turned her head to the side to look at him. Leem’s eyes flicked up from his tablet with a question. She was down to only one protector now. Fil had been (sort of) reassigned to make her look more vulnerable. He was still around somewhere, she knew, but not readily available. Molly studied Leem a moment. When he wasn’t pacing, or checking and rechecking doors and windows, or standing in various locations and memorizing the room from different angles, he was reading. He was an odd contradiction of a man. He sounded like a longshoreman, but was about as contemplative as one could get.

     “As always, I’m fine, just frustrated.”

     “Yeah, I see that. Anythin’ I can do ta help?”

     She sputtered another sigh from her lips. “No, well, maybe. Talk to me about something completely unrelated to this so I can clear my head. I’m going in circles here.”

     He shifted on his seat. “Um, I dunno, Doctor. What you want to talk about?”

     She lifted her head. One of the papers stuck to her cheek. She grabbed it quickly and slammed it back down on the bench as her face warmed.

     “You’re always reading,” she murmured. “What do you look at on that thing?”

     He jutted his lip out a moment as he looked down at the screen of his gadget. “Stuff, lots o’ different things I guess. I read tons o’ news, current events and such. I like ta keep on top of the goin’s on in the world. It ‘elps in my job.”

     “Mm, what about novels? You a literary fan?”

     Molly suppressed a grin. For some reason, she could picture him reading all sorts of classics, maybe even some Jane Austen.

     “I am, I guess.”

     Leem’s face reddened. Molly really had to try hard not to smile. He didn’t want to tell her what he was in to.

     She clicked her tongue against her teeth and finally grinned. “Whatcha reading, Leem? Like . . . right now?”

     He shook his head. “It’s nothin’. Just stuff.”

     She squinted at him. “It’s not porn, is it?”

     He absolutely flamed. “No! O’ course not. I know better than ta look at that stuff at work . . .”

     He smacked a hand to his face. “I mean, hell. I’m just reading up on a bit of science, well, history of science. It’s called, _‘The Perfect Theory’_.”

     Molly’s brow drew together. “That sounds . . . complicated. Wait, are you reading a book about physics?”

     He dipped his chin.

     “Yeah, I know, it seems daft but I dunno, I like it. It’s all about Einstein and the history of his _‘General Theory of Relativity’_ an’ then what everyone’s been trying to do wit it since to find a unified theory. Do you know he was shite at math, well, in the circles he was in? He had to hook up with some blokes to sort it out before he cooked up all his field equations . . .”

     Her jaw had hit the floor by this time. Leem turned his tablet off and put it aside.

     “I know, like I said, it probably seems right stupid that I’d try ta follow this, you bein’ a doctor and all.”

     She shook her head vigorously. “I didn’t take a lot of physics, Leem. I know my biology and chemistry but that kind of thing wasn’t my strong suit. God, why would you be embarrassed to tell anyone you’re reading a book like that?”

     He crossed his arms and looked aside. “I’m not educated. I don’ want people to laugh at me for trying to better myself.”

     “I would never laugh at you,” she frowned. “And educated and smart are two entirely different things, Leem. I mean, I have more education and training than Sherlock but I don’t think a person can begin to measure his intelligence by that yardstick. Like, I think I top out at a 148 on the IQ scale on a good day when I’ve had my breakfast and two or more cups of coffee . . .”

     “You only score a 148?” He interrupted.

     Her lips parted and her chin came back. “Why? Have you ever been tested? Where are you pegged?”

     He shook his head stiffly. “Nah, not really.”

     “Liar! I’ve become a veritable savant in lie detection so don’t try to put one over on me, Leem!”

     His eyes skittered away. “Nah, I don’ think I believe it now. They must’ve cocked the test up somehow.”

     “Tell me your score!”

     He rolled his eyes. “Not much better. Like a 164 or something.”

     “A 164? In the exceptionally gifted slash genius level, Leem? You ass. What are you doing over there reading news? Get over here and help me with this analysis!”

     He reluctantly rose from his stool and made his way towards the bench. She spread her papers out for him to look at.

     “I don’ know much about chemistry,” he grumbled.

     Molly tapped her fingers on the different papers as she spoke. “You don’t have to. I just need a new set of eyes to go over this before I give up on it entirely. I’d ask you-know-who but we can’t risk him blowing this whole thing up. So, just take a quick look and if you see the same as I do, we’ll move on.”

     She explained a little of what she’d been testing, the different time frames and what she needed him to look at. Not surprisingly, Leem was a quick study. In just a couple minutes, he was comfortable enough to be left to his own devices.

     Molly checked her list of things to do and then the time on her phone. It was just past three pm. Suddenly, there didn’t seem to be enough time in the day. She had to be over at Mary’s by four and off to the bank before it closed. Not to mention, she still needed to make a phone call. She looked at the time again once more. She made a mental calculation and then picked up her cell and double tapped a contact to make a call.

     She gestured her head towards the back office of the lab. “Just going to make a call, Leem.”

     He nodded but didn’t look up from the papers he was engrossed in. She closed the door to the office just as the phone call connected.

     _“Hola?”_

Molly gritted her teeth as a woman’s voice answered the other end. Damn, she really wished Sherlock was helping her with all this.

     “Um,” she mumbled, “ _¿Está Dr. Rojas, por favor?”_

The line was silent for a moment. Then, Molly heard a faint hiccup and a sob. She held her breath as she felt a sinking sensation in her gut. She desperately searched her mind's scant Spanish phrase inventory.

     “ _¿Cómo?_ ” She stuttered.

     Molly heard a full on weeping erupt on the other end of the phone. Quick-fire phrases assaulted her between cries. She chewed her lip a moment. Crap, she had no idea what the woman was saying.

     “U-um, ah, _perdón_ , I don’t . . . erm, _no hablo español_ ,” she hoped she made sense.

     “ _Él fue asesinado._ Dr. Rojas is . . . dead,” the female said haltingly. “He was killed last night by . . . _un atracador._ I don’t know how to say this. A street bandit?”

Molly sucked in a breath. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Um, _¡Lo siento mucho¡_.”

     She couldn’t get many more details from the woman and in very short order, she hung up the phone and set it down shakily. Dr. Rojas was dead. She covered the bottom half of her face with her hands and breathed into them to calm herself. It couldn’t just be a coincidence. Everywhere she went lately, she seemed to leave a wake of death and destruction.

     Tears burned quick and hot in the back of her eyes. Maybe Dr. Rojas had just been killed in an unfortunate mugging, but the coincidence in that was just too much. She grabbed her phone again and dialed the newest addition to her contact list.

     “Mycroft speaking,” a haughty male voice answered.

     “Hello, Mycroft, it’s Dr. Hoo- I mean, Molly. I-I just learned something terrible . . .”

     She heard Mycroft murmur something before he responded. “Mm, hello, Molly. I gathered you tried to get a hold of your contact in Bogota?”

     She swallowed. “Yes. I just found out he’s . . . he’s . . .”

     “Dead, yes, we know. His office was ransacked as well. His notebook is missing.”

     “Oh, my word! What are we going to do?”

     Her hands were shaking. She could barely hold her phone.

     “Hmm, well, this does make things more difficult, Molly, but at least we know we’re on the right track. How is your investigation going?”

     Molly let out a frustrated exhale. “Not well, I don’t think I’m going to be able to tease out the data we’re after. It’s just . . . there’s not enough.”

     “I see. Well, we’re not totally sunk yet. We still have option ‘C’.”

     She wrinkled her nose. “Ah, yeah well, I haven’t given up yet. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

     “I have to go, Molly. Keep me apprised, okay?”

     Molly took a few breaths before she exited the small office and found her way back to where Leem seemed engrossed by two different documents. She studied the intense look of concentration on his face. She knew that look. It was the hound on a scent look. She desperately hoped he had something to contribute. Good news would be more than welcome. She looked over his shoulder.

     “What are you on to, Leem?”

     He raised his head. “Um, nothing, probably. I mean, I don’t see anything different than you described. The numbers are what they are, it’s just . . .”

     She raised her brows. “Yes?”

     “There’s a pattern.”

     “There is?”

     He laid down three sheets of paper. “Here, this one, it’s the source, right?”

     She nodded.

     “An’ these two, they’re the most significant instances?”

     Again, her head wagged up and down.

     “So, you’re right. The levels ain’t high enough but the proportions are all the same.”

     Molly’s eyes widened. Suddenly, she saw it clearly as day. “Oh, my God, Leem Coley, you are a genius!”

     He frowned down at the papers. “I’m not . . .”

     She threw her arms around his shoulders and planted a kiss right on the side of his cheek. “No, you are, you bloody brilliant man!”

     Of course, it was then the lab doors swung open and someone strolled in. Molly's head swung around and her gaze fell on a tall, very angry man in a long trench. Sherlock! She felt her stomach clench. Lord, how did he manage to always show up at the most inopportune moments?

     Leem’s adam’s apple did a jig. “Dr. Molly, you’d better let go of me now. You almost got my brother killed this way.”


	33. The adjunct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um, SMUT, because . . . I like it and this is my sandbox! Now, I'm going to sit on my little overturned bucket and watch the proceedings.

 

Molly panicked. She couldn’t let Sherlock see what they were working on. As casual as she could, she gathered the papers off the bench and handed them to Leem.

     “Take these please,” she whispered.

     He nodded. “Will do, Dr. Molly.”

     “And I’m really sorry for what I’m about to do,” she said softly as she quickly glanced over to Sherlock who hadn’t yet crossed the lab, “but I don’t want him to ask you anything about what you’re holding.”

     Leem’s eyes widened and his head went back. “Don’t do what I think yer goin’ to do . . .”

     Molly gave him a big beam of a smile and then hugged him around his neck and planted a smack right on his lips.

     “Thanks again, Leem, you’re the best!”

     Leem stared at her stunned for a moment and glanced worriedly over his shoulder. Then he shook his head, grabbed the papers and scurried off as Sherlock’s head swiveled and followed his departure with his mouth partly open. He looked back at Molly with a dumbfounded look on his face. His lids blinked several times.

     “Wh-wh-what . . . was . . . that?”

     She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. “What? Oh, Leem’s just been such a dear, you know. He, erm, sneaked me some of Paula’s treatment records for me to look at so I could double check that she was getting the best care. He’s just running them back now before anyone notices they’re missing.”

     Geez, she was pretty impressed with herself for that whopper.

     Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he came towards her and his voice dropped to a low rumble.

     “I don’t care what Leem was doing,” he grumbled. “What were you doing kissing him?”

     Molly tucked her lips in a moment. Well, damn, that had worked. Almost too well. She just hoped poor Leem didn’t end paying for her impulsiveness later. She looked up at Sherlock just as he stepped within grasping distance and tried not to smile. She was secretly thrilled by that look on his face. His brows were drawn together, his hair shadowed his eyes and his lips strained at the corners.

     “What? It was just a friendly peck.”

     His mouth opened. She saw a flash of his teeth.

     “On the lips?” He growled.

     “Is that a problem?”

     His eye twitched. He reached his hand between the open halves of her lab coat and slid it around her waist. He jerked her hard against him, enough so that the air vacated her lungs. He stared down at her lips a moment.

     “Yes, it is a problem,” the sound of his voice reverberated through her body, “because he tasted you.”

     “Pfft,” she responded. “H-hardly.”

     She almost couldn’t handle the anticipation and the dark look in his eyes. His fingers pressed into her back, his muscular framed shifted and flexed along her length and he scanned her face again.

     “You’re being . . . very naughty, Miss Hooper,” he admonished.

     She licked her lips nervously. “Am I?”

     His eyes constricted another fraction. “I think you are trying to make me jealous.”

     The corner of her lip tweaked up and she looked away a second. “Is it working?”

     “Yes.”

     However, he seemed to reign in his faculties, at least a little. She felt a swirl of sensation in her belly. She scrunched her nose.

     “I-I don’t understand why it gets you so riled up now. Where was all this jealousy when I was dating Jim Moriarty and engaged to Tom and . . .”

     His hold tightened again while his other hand drifted up to the collar of her lab coat and flipped it down. He stroked a finger along the mark he’d left.

     “Well, my maneuverings were more passive aggressive then.”

     “Maneuverings . . . I broke up with both of them!”

     He brushed her ponytail back and dropped his head to the side of her neck. He kissed her just behind her jaw.

     “Yes, of course you did.”

     “Sherlock!” She whispered raggedly. “That still doesn’t explain why you’ve gotten all broody every time someone else so much as stands too close to me.”

     His lips grazed her ear. She could barely think.

     “Because, Molly,” he said with a deep tremor, “you weren’t really mine before. Now that you are, I’ve dropped the pretense. I really, really . . . _really_ don’t like anyone else touching you. It . . . irritates me.”

     She gripped this sides to steady herself as his voice finished on a gravelly note. He was so damn hot, literally. Why did he wear his coat at all? He was an absolute inferno.

     “I’m not y-yours, Sherlock Holmes,” she lied (pants-on-fire, lied). I’m not a thing that you own.”

     He chuckled in her ear. “So you’ve said before but, see, it’s not so simple, Molly Hooper. I have come to realize that I am, in fact, not a sociopath, even a high functioning one, but I am obsessive . . .”

     He licked the tender spot on her neck.

     “Compulsive . . .”

     He nipped at the skin there. She closed her eyes and let her head fall sideways.

     “And definitely disordered.”

     Molly inhaled as his hands dropped to her scrub bottoms. There was a moment where she knew what he was going to do but couldn't for the life of her muster the resistance to stop him. She knew it was a bad, very wicked idea and they were practically in public, but it made things happen between her thighs. Needy, want-y, greedy, greedy things made her sex ache. Her eyes flew open as the cold air hit her bare bottom and her pants and knickers whispered to the floor.

     “G-God, Sherlock!”

     His mouth came down on hers and damnit if she didn’t kiss him back just as urgently. He guided her arms up around his neck as he wrenched his pants open and freed his already swollen erection. He stepped her towards the bench and violently cleared a path with his arm. Several things hit the floor with a crash and tinkle. He hiked her up, naked from the hips down and next thing she knew her shoes had fallen off and she was propped on the counter. It was hard and the sharp edges pressed into her thighs, but . . . oh, Lordy, Lord! How many times had she had this exact fantasy? Like every freakin’ instance he stepped into the lab. It may as well be an animated gif in her head. Still, it was insane. She was cracked

     “We can’t,” She gasped, even as her hands sought his body.

     He kissed her again. His hands slid between her thighs and began stroking her into a frenzy.

     “We have twenty-two minutes before the next person walks through that door,” he murmured between feeding from her lips. “Time enough for me to teach you a lesson about ownership.”

     “Um, there you go again . . .”

     “Not the correct response,” he ground out.

     His finger glided over her clit and she cried out. She clung to him so tightly her elbows were behind his neck. He pushed her thighs apart and pulled her forward but groaned in frustration. She was a little too high up for him to make his entry. He raised his head, looked around, then slid his hands under her bottom and hoisted her off the bench. One, two, three steps of weightlessness in his arms and her back was up against the wall and he had plunged into her with one sudden, deliberate thrust like a sledge driving a stake into the ground.

     “Ah!” She sputtered as he slammed into the back her. “Oh, fuck, yes!”

     Oh, she knew she’d be fired right then if anyone walked in. What a sight it would be with her clinging to him, her legs crossed behind his back and his pants around his ankles as he rutted her against the wall. She wished there was a mirror opposite them so she could see him pinioning her and watch his jacket heave with each movement. The entirety of her passage reacted with a spasm at the thought and her eyes rolled back in her head as he thrust again. She felt a flurry of sensation at her clit.

     _“Crap!”_  She thought as she almost prematurely came. _“Not yet! I need more.”_

      She bit her lip and forced herself to calm down even as the hard length of him reminded her of the reality of what they were doing. Each plunge of his shaft into her body made her more wet, slippery and easier to plunder. She closed her eyes and focused on the feel of his raw invasion and the sounds of his pants in her ear. She was beginning to recognize his reactions, the tension building within him and . . .  _bloody hell_. . . she wasn’t prepared. Her orgasm burst forward like a pin being jerked from a grenade. A spark ignited and flashed and she exploded from the over-torqued center of her being.

     “Uhhhn,” she grunted.

     She went very heavy in his arms. She had no strength left to hoist herself up as her limbs shook. The only thing taut on her whole body was her sex as she gripped him and involuntarily coaxed him to finish.

     “Molly, ah, hmm-m-m.”

     He pumped into her a few more times, then slowed his thrusts. With a long combination of a sigh and groan he heaved against her one last time. She felt his cock spurt and the little muscles contract along its length. His fingers bit into the flesh of her bottom as a shudder coursed his torso. His lips puffed heavily in her ear. After a few seconds, he lifted his head. There was a bead of sweat trickling down his temple and several pearls of it along his hairline.

      He gazed down at her. Something flitted through his mind, she was sure, as she saw a fleeting tenseness in his face. He looked over his shoulder towards the door. He looked very guilty.

     “Christ, I lose my mind around you. Forgive me. Th-that could have cost you your job.”

     She touched his face and shook her head. “I could have said no, but apparently, I have no will of my own.”

     He sighed.

     “You a-are not a thing to me, Molly,” he walked her back to the bench and set her down.

      He fixed his own clothing, reached down and picked up her discarded pants. He paused a moment before he placed them in her hands.

     “But you have to understand, in my head, I can’t separate . . . all this. What you do to me, the way you make me feel, how you react to my touch, how you _come_ for me . . . I did that. It’s mine,” he rasped and tapped the side if his head. “You’re like a seed that’s taken root. I don’t know what’s you and what’s me sometimes.”

     Molly swallowed. She reached for some nearby wipes. Her face burned. She couldn’t believe what they had just done, but then, sadness gripped her. They were both of them just getting worse at putting off the inevitable. This was heading somewhere, or more likely, nowhere.  She gulped back a lump in her throat.

     She looked up at him imploringly. “You . . . you must know how I feel about you, Sherlock. Why can’t we figure this out?”

     His head dropped then shot up and looked around. He leaned forward on the bench beside her and rounded his shoulders as his head dipped again. His hair fell forward and concealed his face. Molly hopped off the bench after tidying herself and quickly put her pants back on. She wanted to run away when the silence stretched between them for more than a minute. He grabbed her wrist before she could escape and pulled her back into his arms. With a moan, he kissed her once more.

      Then the lab doors burst open and Molly looked sideways to see Leem stroll in with a box of biscuits. He stopped and stared at them. His gaze went to the floor and the flasks and cylinder that had been flung to their death.  A couple of crumbs fell from his lips as his eyes leveled again.

     “Shite, am I interrupting something?”


	34. The oblivian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You should be gripping your chest by the end.

 

    “Mr. Holmes!” Anthea jumped from her chair. “You can’t go in there. He’s busy!”

     Sherlock paused mid-stride and gave her a quizzical look. “He’s always busy. That doesn’t mean what he’s doing is important.”

     She hastily skirted her desk and ran in front of the door. “Well, today it is important.”

     Sherlock flipped the collar of his jacket down and huffed. “It can’t be as pressing as what I’m about to tell him so if you don’t mind . . .”

     “No.”

     He tilted his head sideways at Anthea. Normally, she took great delight in allowing him to disturb his brother. She would usually smirk and encourage him with a flick of her fingers but today was different. Why?

     He took note of her dress, the way she held her phone, and the style of her hair. This day, it was an up-do. When Anthea wore her hair fashioned in a tight French roll, it usually signified some large operation was afoot. It was her subconscious battle dress. He narrowed his eyes at her and further observed her phone was in a new protective case and she wore flats. All psychological signs of the need to feel comfortable when stressed.

     She shook her head at him as he was about to open his mouth. “Don’t! Don’t you deduce me, Sherlock Holmes. I get enough of that from your brother. I can’t even change my coffee order in the morning without him knowing about it.”

     If he wasn’t so concerned with what was happening behind the office door, he’d laugh. Mycroft nit-picking his assistant. That spoke volumes. He snapped his fingers as he resisted his inclination stir the pot.

     “Right, well, I need to see him, it’s urgent.”

     She crossed her arms. “No!”

     He frowned. “Don’t make me physically remove you, Anthea. While I do enjoy irritating him immensely, I do not have the time to waste today on calming him down afterwards. So, we can do this the messy way or the . . . slightly _less_ messy way. Your call.”

     She pressed her lips together and snorted a breath through her nose. “Will you at least let me alert him first?”

     Sherlock stepped aside and gestured for her to pass. She straightened her suit jacket and walked to her desk. As soon as she was out of the way Sherlock proceeded directly to the door.

     “You bastard, you said you’d let me alert him first!” She grumbled.

     Sherlock jerked down on the handle. “Trust me, he already knows I’m here.”

     He yanked open the door and stalked into Mycroft’s office. Mycroft sat behind his desk facing Leem and Fil. Leem’s eyes rounded when he saw Sherlock, his face went red, and he looked down at his feet. Sherlock felt his eyelid twitch involuntarily as the image of Molly kissing him flashed in his mind’s eye.

     Immediately after the burn of rage through his system, he felt doused in a cold wash as a realization hit him. Where the bodyguards went, so too did Molly, but he did not see her.

     “I-is Molly here?” He queried.

     Mycroft looked up at sat back with a sigh. He folded his hands together and raised his brows.

     “Good afternoon to you too, brother dear,” he sighed. “No, Mo-, I mean, Dr. Hooper is not here.”

     Sherlock stepped towards the desk slowly. His eyes immediately went to work assessing everything about Mycroft, but damn, his brother was not so easily read as his assistant. He turned his gaze to Leem and Fil outfitted in their Sunday best. They were being reassigned to some dignitary instead of his Molly. Rage fired up within him again like a bellows of air into hot coals.

     “Where is she and why aren’t they watching her?”

     He searched his mind. It had been a couple days since he had accosted her at the lab. As much as he wanted to be with her, he hadn’t been able to do that. He shuddered. He alternately spent his days trying to woo Irene and track down her sponsor, a man he had finally confirmed was Sebastian Moran through exhaustive digging. In fact, he believed he found him and needed Mycroft to do something about it before he made another attempt on Molly’s life.

     Panic began to stir in his gut. His feet threatened to fly him out of there.

     “They aren’t watching her because I have more important things for them to do, and really, Sherlock, how long did you think I would be able to provide her with such an extravagance?”

     He couldn’t even contemplate what he heard. His hands hovered at the side of his head as electric arcs of anger seared through his skull. His mind palace started to quake, books fell off the shelves and furniture toppled over. Molly was in there, darting out of the way and pleading for him to calm down.

      _“Focus! We’ve found him. Now tell Mycroft.”_

Sherlock shook his head. “You have to protect her for just a few more days. I found him, Mycroft. I know who Irene is working with.”

     Mycroft’s lips twitched. “Found who?”

     “Sebastian Moran.”

     “Mm, oh,” Mycroft didn’t seem all that impressed. “Yes, good work.”

     Sherlock glowered at him. “You already knew.”

     Mycroft rolled his eyes and looked at the brothers who just shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. “Of course I already knew. I’m the smart one, remember?”

     Sherlock exhaled through his teeth. “Fine, you know who he is, do you know where he is?”

     Mycroft shrugged. “At present, no. Shortly, yes. I’ve got . . . people working on it.”

     Sherlock clicked his teeth together. There was something he was missing. He could see the picture, but there was a hole right in the middle with a shape that should be unusual and therefore easy to spot, but escaped him.

     “He’s at a small boutique hotel called the Windermere near Eccleston Square,” Sherlock looked at his watch. “He’ll be there for another, ah, thirty-five minutes.”

     Mycroft nodded. “Indeed.”

     Sherlock wanted to smack the disinterested look off his brother’s face. “Well? What are you going to do? I just handed you the location of Sebastian Moran, a man who has _twice_ tried to murder Molly Hooper, a British citizen may I remind you. Of course, that’s what you would consider small potatoes but the sheer fact that he’s a Yank spy should make you want to wipe him off the face of the Earth.”

     Mycroft finally sat forward. “Oh, yes, of course. Yank spy! Look, brother mine, I appreciate you locating him. I’ll get a team over there right away and put some surveillance on him but as for arresting the man?  Sorry, I’m not interested in Sebastian Moran. I wouldn’t know what to do with him. I have no proof of anything he’s done and nor, I suspect, do you.”

     Sherlock turned, took a few steps and then kicked a chair. It tumbled across the room, smashed into the wall and left a gouge before toppling over.

     “Now, Mr. Holmes, don’ get too upset,” Fil cautioned. “We can’t ‘ave you bustin’ up the boss’ office.”

     Sherlock turned and started towards Mycroft. He was going to murder him. All he could see was red.

      “How about his head?” He said gruffly.

     Leem jumped up and held out his hand as Fil also shot to his feet. Mycroft’s chin retracted then he lifted it defiantly. He made a sour face.

     “Calm yourself, Sherlock,” he drawled. “She’ll be fine. She’s a smart girl. I’m sure she’s figured out a way to protect herself. If it makes you feel any better, Leem and Fil can stop by her place later.”

     The boys looked at each other.

     “O’ course, boss. You don’ even have ta pay us,” Fil said with a smirk. “You’d especially agree wit that, right Leem?”

     Leem turned blazing eyes to his brother. “Shut yer hole, Fil!”

     Sherlock lost it then. He launched himself towards Mycroft but the brothers tackled him. He managed to elbow Fil in the face and heard a satisfying crack. He kneed Leem hard enough in the nether-regions so that even if he wanted to, he would find no pleasure in thinking about Molly’s kiss for the next few days. However, the boys were good and at Mycroft’s insistence he was flat on the floor in a matter of minutes. He tried one last time to heave the brutes off but Fil sat on his legs while Leem pinned his chest to the floor with his arms behind his back. He panted against the rough wool of Mycroft’s carpet.

     “Alright, alright, I concede,” he spit out. “Let me up. I need to get to Molly.”

     Sherlock watched Mycroft’s polished brown oxfords walk towards him. He picked up his umbrella and tapped it on the floor as he approached.

     “I can’t do that," he muttered. "Leem, Fil, hold him please, and make sure you have a good grip."

     “I promise to behave,” Sherlock rasped, anxiety made his heart hammer. “Let me up!”

     Mycroft clucked his tongue. Sherlock felt like a trapped badger. He wriggled beneath the boys but Leem pushed his face against the floor. Mycroft crouched down.

     “Sorry, to sound trite, dear brother,” he popped the handle off his umbrella. “But, this is for your own good.”

     Mycroft extracted what looked like a pen from a hollowed cavity in the wood of the handle. He pressed a button and with an almost inaudible click, a short needle popped out.

     Sherlock’s eyes widened and he began to fight again. He almost heaved Leem off but then his head was slammed back down to the floor.

     “No!” he screamed. “No, Mycroft, don’t!”

     Mycroft shook his head. “Don’t worry, it’s something new we’ve been working on, not an opioid. You’ll wake up in a few hours feeling little to no effects.”

     “Noooo!” He wailed. “No! You’re going to get her killed, Mycroft. Don’t do this!”

     Leem grunted as he bucked again. “You’d better do it soon, boss, he’s getting’ a second wind.”

     Sherlock desperately tried one last maneuver but he was too late. Mycroft’s hand came up and then he felt a prick in his neck and the flood of something tingly into his flesh. The effect of the drug was lightening quick. Almost instantly, his limbs slacked. A wave of nausea hit him like he’d been thrown onto a vessel with three sheets to the wind. Molly’s smiling face swam in front of his face. He sobbed.

     “Oh, God, y-you’re going . . . to . . .  kill . . . her . . .”

     The last thing he was aware of before he closed his eyes was hot, wet tears running down his face.


	35. The imminence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How far do you think I can stretch this before it snaps?

 

Molly opened the metal box. Inside was a small, purple velvet bag. Her hands shook as she reached for it. She couldn’t believe what she had been enlisted to do. She paused just as she brushed her fingers over its fuzzy surface.

     She took a deep breath and retrieved the bag. With a quick jerk she slammed the box closed, stuffed it back into its safety deposit slot and re-locked the little door behind it. Then, she went over to a counter located nearby, carefully opened the pouch and poured the contents into her hand.

     Her breath caught. Several loose gems twinkled up at her both cut, and some uncut and more dull. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds and other stones she didn’t recognize rolled across her palm. She was no jeweler, but these had to be real. With a quivering breath, she turned her hand back over and let them trickle back inside. Then she slipped the bag into her purse and steeled her shoulders as she looked about. These could be her last few moments of safety and security.

     A few minutes later, anxiousness overwhelmed her as she walked down the street toward the nearest tube station. She had to slow her steps. All she wanted to do was run as fast as her feet could move. She had done this four times at four different banks recently and each time the result had been the same, yet this day felt different. She could feel it in the air and almost smell it, like the winds had shifted and smoke from wildfires had drifted into the city.

      She had to remind herself that this was all for Mary, John, little Eliza and of course, Sherlock and his son and maybe partially for Irene in some small measure. She didn’t like the woman and hated her a little even for being so duplicitous, but in her heart of hearts, did not wish her harm. There was always something in her eyes, something disingenuous when it came to Sherlock, as if she too played a part. Molly was sure there was more to what she had been up to than just trying to win Sherlock's heart.

    “Hey, Miss!”

     At first, Molly didn’t think the voice was for her but then someone large and rotund stepped in her path. She couldn’t help having a flashback and hear the echo of the shot that had taken down Paula in her brain. Her eyes flew around. The street was very busy as people headed home from work. She stepped back from the man as he flicked his tongue over a sharp gold tooth. Her stomach turned.

     “Miss Hooper, right?” He said with a leering smile.

     She shook her head and made a face. “E-Excuse me?”

     He leaned forward and flipped open his jacket to reveal a gun at his side. “Ah, now, you don’t need to verify it with me. I’m not as stupid as my partner. I know who you are.”

     Molly’s eyes felt like they were going to pop from her face. She retreated so quickly that she tripped and ended up falling back. A large, pudgy hand clamped over her arm like a meaty vice and pulled her forwards. Fetid breaths radiated against her face as he loomed over her with menace. Erratic heartbeats thrummed in her temples. The world felt like it was disappearing from beneath her feet and a cold swept through her insides.

     “Don’t kill me,” she whispered. “Please don’t kill me.”

     He mocked her with an exaggerated pout. “Ooh, relax. I’m not going to kill you right now. In fact, I might not even have to at all. See, that’s up to you.”

     Molly tried to pull from the man’s grasp but he squeezed harder. “Let go of me, I’ll . . . scream or something.”

     He chuckled. “No, please don’t, not here anyways. I hate to get aroused in public.”

     She was going to be sick. “What do you w-want?”

     He dragged her to a lane way out of the view of the street. “Ask me again later, hey? I like the sound of that coming from your mouth.”

     Molly’s stomach heaved. She panicked and started struggling. She had to at least put up a fight. It was fairly fruitless, though. In mere seconds, he’d slammed her against wall behind a bin and his hands were on her body. She couldn’t help herself then, she screamed.

     “No!” She cried. “No! Don’t!”

     Then her head was almost taken off as he slapped her across the mouth. Pain erupted in her lip as it was cut with one of her teeth. Her voice dropped to a strained whisper.

     “Please, please don’t  . . . “

     “Shut up, you dumb whore,” he seethed. “I’m not going to rape you. Not in this fucking alley. I'm not stupid. Nope, right now I’m looking to see you aren’t wired or nothing. You’ve earned yourself the honor of a personal audience with my boss but you should know he gave me permission to put a bullet in your brain, actually. Two for good measure this time if you don’t cooperate.”

     Molly swallowed and choked back tears as he finished his groping and then jerked her bag off her shoulder. He held her tightly by the throat, enough that she started to feel dizzy as he overturned her purse and dumped out the contents. Then, he stepped on the handle of it and ripped out the lining.

     “Yeah, lookit that. They couldn’t completely let you go, could they?” He asked. “Fucking transmitter in your bag. Did you know that was there?”

     Molly shook her head but she had, in fact, known. Her heart stumbled. Fear made her belly quiver. She was trembling as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Then, he smashed the little black device with the heel of his boot. It crunched and with its destruction, any bravery Molly had. Tears ran unimpeded down her face. What had she gotten herself into?

     “Quit your sniveling,” He prodded the contents of her purse with his foot. “Pick up your phone and the pouch there.”

     His fingers dropped from her neck and he propelled her downwards by her shoulder. She bit back a cry as her knees impacted the cobblestones. She gathered up her phone and the little velvet bag and stood again.

     “Take the battery out your phone,” he said as he gripped her arm again. “Quickly.”

     He checked his watch. Molly fumbled with the cover on her cell but managed to pop the battery out. He took it from her, threw the battery in the bin and slipped the cell in his pocket.

     “We’re all set, little doctor. Come now, and be a good chickie. The boss awaits.”

          *   *   *

     Sherlock awoke slowly, dreamily, as if from a . . . drug induced slumber! He lurched up from his bed and blinked several times. He was home but fully dressed. Why was he home? His mind was a bit hazy. He rubbed his temples. Then memories assailed him like projectiles being fired at his face. Mycroft’s shoes. The snap of his umbrella as the handle separated from the shaft. The glint of light off a needle. Leem’s large hand pressing his face to the floor.

     Molly!

     Molly was in danger. He heaved himself out of bed but immediately crumpled. Panic gripped him. He rolled over and looked up to where his phone rested on his bedside table. He reached up and swatted at it clumsily as his toes began to tingle and life returned to his limbs. The phone fell to the floor. He dragged himself nearer, managed to sit up against the bed and place a call.

     “Sherlock, fuck off,” a gruff voice answered.

     “J-John,” he sputtered. “John, help me.”

     Silence ensued for an excruciating moment.

     “Sherlock, I’m not in the mood for one of your tricks,” he responded angrily.

     “P-Please, John, please,” he stammered and started sobbing, “please, I beg you. It’s Molly. Oh, God, Mycroft’s done something foolish.”

     “What? What is it? What’s he done?”

     Sherlock coughed several times. He was still having trouble swallowing.

     “I don’t know exactly!”

     John groaned on the other end of the line. “Sherlock, you sound high. Are you fucking high right now?”

     “Possibly, . . . but it’s not my f-fault.”

     John made an exasperated sigh through the phone. “It’s never your fault, is it? Never! God, you are such a . . .”

     He roared then. “John! Shut up! Just, shut up! I didn’t take drugs. Mycroft has dosed me with something to prevent me from interfering in some sort of operation. It involves Molly, I am certain of it.”

     He started sniffling, then sobbing, a sort of abnormal sobbing that gripped his whole being. “Look, I think the drug must be some sort of system depressant . . . because . . . I am experiencing almost d-d-debilitating sadness . . .”

     The phone nearly slipped from his grasp as he rubbed a hand over his face. His chest heaved several times as sobs sputtered from his chest. He tried to take deep breaths to calm himself but his whole frame kept shuddering and a high pitched sound wheezed from his lips with each attempt.

     “Sherlock?! Jesus Christ, you’re not kidding, are you? Sherlock, are you still there?”

     “Y-y-yes, John.”

     “Right then, I’m coming over.”

     “Yes, yes, h-hurry.”

     His hand dropped as the line went dead. He tried to regain his faculties. He grabbed each of his legs and started rubbing them vigorously as he hiccuped and gulped down breaths. He hadn’t cried like this since . . . well since they had put down Redbeard. He choked up again. He looked towards the window. It was dark, so nighttime, he surmised. He checked his watch. 9:15 pm. He’d been out for four hours. He wondered if Molly was even . . .

      He pressed closed fists to the backs of his eyes. He tried not to think about it but every scenario he played out in his head ended in her death.

     The door to his room swung open then. He looked up knowing it was much too soon for John to have arrived. Irene stood smirking down at him.

     “I thought I heard a commotion.”

     She was the last person he wanted to see at that point in time. A sour taste formed in his mouth. He was sick of it, sick of the game. She was the source of all of this and as he studied her, he was hit with a realization and the fogginess of the last few hours brought a sudden clarity.

     She wasn’t going to give up Auguste’s location. It didn’t matter what he said or did. She had made up her mind long before she ever stepped foot back in London and he had foolishly let her string him along.

     “What are you doing here?” He hissed.

     “Mm, uh-oh,” she made a frowny face at him. “What’s that look about, sweetums?”

     He gritted his teeth.

     “Irene, have I ever told you,” he said in a low voice, “how much I hate you?”

     She laughed. “Oh, Sherlykins, you’re not allowed to hate me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, my favorite part of this was Sherlock trying to explain away his sads. Like it had to be the drugs! Mm hmm, Sherlock, riiiiight.


	36. The culmination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're heading somewhere, folks! Maybe back to where we started :)

 

Molly stretched her legs in her small cell which wasn’t really a cell, but a small two piece loo in the dank basement of a townhouse in Battersea near Clapham Junction. She had been brought there hours ago by the troll-man, “Joseph” and another equally repugnant lout driving a non-descript silver Ford Fiesta. She wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed, but by the change of the light through the heavily frosted window (which was much too small to escape through) she figured it was somewhere between nine and ten in the evening.

     The last couple of hours had been strangely anti-climactic. She had been bustled into the little room and essentially abandoned there. She had no idea what was going on. She was supposed to meet the “boss” who she figured must be the infamous Sebastian Moran, but if he was even at the townhouse, he had yet to summon her for their meeting.

     She rubbed her arms. She was cold. They had taken her shoes, her socks and her cardigan so that all she was left wearing was a pair of loose cotton trousers and a thin, short-sleeved blouse.

     A faint vibration through the floor indicated the passing of another train. She shivered, more from the knowledge of that than anything else. They hadn’t even bothered to conceal where they took her which Mycroft had warned was almost a guaranteed sign they planned to end her life. Molly sat down on the closed seat of the toilet again and tucked her feet up under her to try to warm them. Almost as soon as she did though, the door handle moved. She hugged her arms about herself. What does one do in this situation?

     The door fully opened. The disgusting henchman Joseph threw her shoes down at her.

     “Alright, you can have those back. Come on then, the boss is ready to see you.”

     Molly’s heart started thumping. A shiver shot up her spine. She scrambled to put her shoes on before she was wrenched out of the bathroom by her elbow and dragged a couple rooms over to an old parlour. Joseph hurled her towards a musty sofa. She slunk down to it and looked around anxiously. There were larger windows near the ceiling of the room but she could see they had bars. There really was no escape from her predicament.

     She needed a rescue to get out of this.

     A sound to her right caught her attention and she looked sideways to see a tall-ish, lean man with dark hair and dressed impeccably in a slim grey suit with a hint of blue in its hue, very pale primrose colored shirt and houndstooth patterned, jewel-tone, slim green tie. Atop his head was a dove grey trilby hat.

     He walked into the middle of the room, then stopped and gazed down at her with very intense, light grey eyes the color of blanched driftwood. He raised an odd, pen-like device that she realized was an electronic cigarette and took a puff from it. His nose sort of wrinkled as he assessed her as if disappointed by what he saw.

     “I had hoped you would be more formidable somehow,” he murmured in a low, gravelly voice with a relatively flat, North American accent, “but you’re just a mouse.”

     Molly didn’t answer. She wanted to say something clever about mice and elephants but what was the point? She didn’t want to have to converse with this man any more than necessary.

     He squinted at her. “Nothing to say?”

     She shrugged. “Squeak?”

     He chuckled and then in a few steps, flopped down beside her and threw an arm over the back of the couch. Molly shrunk away up against the rest on her end. He twitched his brows at her as he puffed again on his device. The sickly sweet smell of black licorice wafted to her nostrils.

      “Relax, mouse, you may have the great Sherlock Holmes twisted in knots, but you really don’t do anything for me.”

     Molly pressed her lips together and looked down. “What do you want, Mr.-?”

     He removed his hat and set it down on a nearby side table. “Come now, you know who I am, don’t you? I’m sure Agatha has told you all about me. My name is Sebastian.”

     He was so off-putting for a handsome man and she didn't know why. She felt like if she peeled back some of his skin, all she'd see was large, hairy, black spiders crawling along his insides.

     She dipped her head. “Mary mentioned she had an ex-husband.”

     “Ex?” He repeated sharply. “We never divorced.”

     She tucked in her lips. She didn’t want to antagonize this man. He had already tried to kill her twice if his cohort's cryptic comments were anything to go by.

     “It’s none of my business,” Molly mumbled.

     Sebastian reached and snatched her towards him by her wrist. She bit her already swollen lip.

     “You’ve made it your business though. You’ve become Agatha’s little confident and now you’re emptying safety deposit boxes all over town.”

     She swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .”

     His fingers bit into her wrist painfully. He put down his e-cigarette and then grabbed her face and squeezed it with his other hand. Molly couldn’t suppress the cry that escaped her lips. The pressure he put on her wrist was extraordinarily excruciating.

     “Listen, little mouse, I detest these kind of games. They grate on me,” he hissed. “Now, you’ve taken something from me and I’ll have it back.”

     He pushed her face and she fell back against the couch then waved the squat Joseph over. He stepped forward.

     “The phone, please,” her assaulter muttered.

     Joseph reached into his pocket and retrieved her cell. Sebastian grabbed it and turned it on.

     “We took the liberty of replacing your battery. The Brits are pretty good at incorporating all manner of recorders and transmitters into those. Now, don’t get too excited. We’ve got a cellular disrupter here so none of your communications will work but you can however, access anything else on your phone.”

     He shoved it in her direction. “Unlock it.”

     Molly shakily grasped her phone and stared down at the lock screen. “Why?”

     The muscles of his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth. “Why do you think you’re here, Molly Hooper? Those ridiculous gems? I am not stupid, I can smell a setup. I know exactly what they are trying to do. Several of those gems are conflict diamonds, Burmese rubies and other exceedingly rare stones. They’re the kind of stones that attract attention when one tries to unload them. I suppose you expect me to ask you where all the other withdrawals you made are but I could care less. What I really want is in your phone. Now kindly, unlock it.”

     Molly shook her head. This situation was going from bad to worse.

     Sebastian leaned forward and gripped her knee punishingly. He clamped down hard. This time, Molly gritted her teeth instead of whimpering.

     “You have a choice. Unlock the damn phone for me, or unlock it for Joseph.”

     She looked over at Joseph’s leering face and swallowed a rise of bile. Her hopes were fading fast.

     “What’s going to happen to me if I do this?” She whispered.

     He lifted his chin in challenge.

      “What’s going to happen to you if you don’t?” He asked.

     Molly blinked back tears. She could stall and bargain but it would just delay the inevitable. She punched in her code and watched her phone come to life. She sniffed down at the picture of Toby that popped up.

     “What do you want now?” She asked.

     He snatched the phone from her hand and rose to his feet. He picked his hat up and put it on as he strolled towards the door. He didn’t even look up when he spoke to his counterparts.

     “Kill her.”

     Molly’s breath caught in her throat. She looked wildly about. That was it? This was it? She shook her head.

     “W-wait, please . . .”

     Sebastian stopped at the doorway and glanced back enquiringly. “What? What did you expect? The only thing you had that was any value to me was that photo you took of Dr. Rojas’ notes. Now, I have it. You are the last breadcrumb. You have to die.”

     “B-b-but I’m not. I sent that photo to my laptop . . . check the history on my phone . . .”

     Irritation rippled across his face as he looked down at the phone. He stalked back towards her and slapped it back in her hands.

     “Show me.”

     She scrolled through her files and then held the phone up for him to see. “Here, in the Bluetooth folder. There’s the time stamp.”

     “Where is your laptop?” He asked with ice in every word.

     “A-a-at the lab at Bart’s. Um, it’s password protected as well.”

     Molly stared up at him. By the way his eyes constricted and a muscle in his cheek spasmed, she could tell he was enraged. He took off his hat and flung it across the room. He turned back towards his companions. Molly slipped her phone into her pocket and made a little prayer that he wouldn’t notice.

     “Where are they waiting for us?” His voice remained eerily even-tempered.

     “The Watson’s place, her flat, and Baker street. I imagine she’s supposed to lure you to one of them locations.”

     The other man shrugged. “I didn’t see anything at the hospital. I think we can get in and out of there pretty quick.”

     Sebastian turned back to her. “Where exactly is your laptop in the lab?”

     Molly crossed her arms and looked away. “Go to hell!”

     He hauled her to her feet and glowered down at her. His eyes flicked across her face.

     “Hell is not a place, Molly Hooper. It’s a state of being. I am Hell. You don’t want to unleash me.”

          *   *   *

     Mycroft clutched his umbrella tightly in his grasp as every phone in his immediate vicinity seemed to go off. The entire flat they occupied opposite of Molly Hooper’s apartment building lit up with the blue glow of cellular screens. He didn’t even need to look at Anthea.

     “Sherlock is awake,” he said with a sigh.

     She nodded. “Seems so, and if the tone of his text message is anything to go by, he’s rather upset.”

     He looked over at her with a tilt of his head. “Well, that was to be expected. Hmm, I think we’re going to have to check the dosage recommendation of our new sedative. He was supposed to be out for another two hours.”

     Anthea smiled wanly. “We had our best chemists on that. However, I don’t know if there is a way to factor in . . . well, his mental resistance to being controlled. He probably willed himself awake.”

     Mycroft stuck out his lip as he thought about that. “Yes, I hadn't considered that. Next time I’ll double the dosage.”

     She sputtered a laugh before reigning it in. “Do you think there will ever be a next time?”

     He opened his mouth to respond but another technician interrupted them.

     “Her phone! Her phone’s popped up!”

     Mycroft stood quickly and took a deep breath. “Where?”

    “It just pinged off a tower near King Edward’s and Newgate.”

     Mycroft closed his eyes and a map of London whizzed by his internal lens. He clicked his umbrella off the floor as he recognized the crossroads.

     “They’re at Bart’s. Contact the team there. Let them know we’re on our way.”

     They’d waited ages for Molly to arrive at her flat but when she’d disappeared from the face of the Earth hours before, the worst had begun to seem likely. Her belongings along with her purse and its smashed tracker had been found just after he surveillance team had lost her trail near Hollingsworth Bank. It wasn’t supposed to have gone that way and heads were going to roll for the monumental screw-up. Most likely his when Sherlock finally caught up with him.

     "What do you want to do about your brother?" Anthea asked. "He's ringing me now."

     Mycroft sighed. "Tell him to meet us at Bart's, but impress upon him that he's not to interfere or he could be responsible for his pathologist's death."

      He let out a breath he’d been holding. Bart’s Lab was one of the alternatives that had been discussed with Molly. The only reason they’d go there is if she led them to it.

     He closed his eyes and thanked his lucky stars. She was still alive.


	37. The valour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension! A few tears?

 

     “Oh, oh, oh, Myc- . . . ah, I mean, boss, he’s here.”

     Mycroft looked up as his younger sibling pushed into the operating bay set up as a hurried, makeshift command central two stories up from Bart’s lab followed closely by John who dragged a handcuffed Irene Adler along with him.

     “Where are the Coley brothers?” Mycroft asked Anthea quickly as Sherlock’s flashing eyes found him.

     Anthea looked at him with round orbs. “They’re downstairs on standby. They insisted on it and I let them go to save my sanity. It’s going to be hard enough to keep this one happy without those two wearing a hole in the tiles.”

     Mycroft glared sideways at her. “But I need them right now!”

     Her lips turned down and she shrugged. “Sorry boss. He’s not really going to do anything, is he?”

     “Mycroft!” Sherlock bellowed across the lab.

     He snatched up his umbrella and held it up as his younger brother came directly towards him with a murderous look in his eyes.

     “Now Sherlock, don’t do anything stupid . . .”

     “Sherlock!” John shouted.

     Then, almost like a dance, Sherlock cut through several personnel who stepped in his way with a few well-placed punches and an elbow or two. At the last second before he reached where Mycroft awaited, Anthea stepped in his path.

      Mycroft rushed forward and grabbed her shoulders. “Oh, for the love of- Anthea!”

     “Don’t hurt him!” She held up her hands at Sherlock. “This was as much for you as anyone.”

     “Anthea, just step aside,” Mycroft chided as he set her aside. “Now, brother mine . . .”

     Before he could even form the next word, his feet were swept out beneath him and he was slammed to the floor with a hand square in the chest. As he gasped for breath, Sherlock straddled him and he felt the first crack of a fist into his cheek. He sputtered.

     “Bloody hell! S-Somebody do s-something!”

     Sherlock managed to land several more punches, in between curses and threats, to the point where Mycroft’s vision was swimming before a bunch of people, including John Watson and several others piled on to drag him off.

     “Sherlock, this isn’t helping anything,” John shouted.

     “I disagree. It’s making me feel loads better!” He returned loudly.

     Mycroft sat up and wiped his lip. Bright red blood smeared across the back of his hand and stained his cuff. He opened his mouth and heard a pop in his jaw.

     “We’re in the middle of an operation, Sherlock. An operation that involves your . . . whatever she is,” he looked up at him with a skyward brow and frowned. “Have you sorted that out yet?”

      Sherlock lurched forward. “I’m going to kill you for this!”

     “Sherlock, calm down,” John cut in. “He’s right! He’s a bloody giant piece of shite but he’s right . . .”

     “Excuse me?” Mycroft protested.

     John raised his brows and pointed a finger at Mycroft as he parted his lips to defend himself.

     “No,” John rebuked. “No, shut it. You are a piece of shit, Mycroft Holmes. I’m half inclined to kill you myself for enlisting Molly in such a thing.”

     Mycroft hauled himself to his feet. He shook off an assisting hand and brushed his own over his suit several times.

     He lifted his chin. “I didn’t enlist Molly.”

     He was met with several disbelieving glowers.

     “I didn’t," he insisted. "You can ask her yourself in a few minutes. Molly Hooper enlisted me. This was all her idea.”

          *   *   *

     Molly stared anxiously at her laptop as it booted up. Sebastian Moran tapped his fingers on the bench top as the screen changed colour and the wallpaper appeared.

     “How old is this machine?” He muttered.

     Molly didn’t answer. It actually wasn’t that old at all, but it had been loaded with a couple new programs recently. One particular application should turn on the camera and microphone surreptitiously as soon as it was done loading the desktop.

     Her computer also didn’t seem to appreciate the lack of wifi connection. Errors popped up along the bottom of the screen. The baddies had brought their wireless signal disrupter with them and turned it on.  

     “Christ, at last,” Sebastian muttered as a login box appeared. “What’s your password?”

     “What indeed?” She mumbled.

     “Don’t be sassy, now,” Joseph said in her ear and pushed her towards the laptop. “Just type it in for the boss.”

     Molly yanked her arm from his grasp. “Why? Why should I? You’re just going to kill me.”

     Sebastian groaned and poked her in the back of the head hard enough that she was pushed forward.

     “Tell you what, mouse. We won’t shoot you. We’ll shut you in one of your body coolers instead. I mean, you’ll still probably die but there’s a microscopic chance you’ll survive the hypothermia and oxygen depletion long enough for someone to find you. What do you say?”

     She looked over at the disappointed Joseph and then returned her gaze to the slimy Sebastian. She nodded vigorously. Being locked in a storage cooler instead of being shot in the head sounded fucking fantastic right then.

     “Promise?”

     He smiled. One lip tugged higher than the other.

     “I promise,” he gestured a cross sign over his heart.

     Molly stepped towards the laptop and typed in her password. Her index finger hovered over the enter key. She had to ask him. It was now or never.

     “Why is this so important? Who is Jacques Leventreur to you anyways?” She queried.

     Sebastian leaned over, swatted her hand out of the way and pressed enter himself.

     “You haven’t figured that out? God, I overestimated you.” he muttered.

     She chewed her lip. “Erm, well, I had my theories of course. I just never confirmed anything. I didn’t get the time.”

     He sat back. “What theory did you lean towards the most?”

     Molly licked her lips. She was so close. What was it that made these arrogant pricks want to talk so freely when they thought they had the upper hand?

     “That Jacques Leventreur is an alias of yours.”

     He smiled and held out his hand with the palm facing upwards as his finger undulated. “You could say that, I guess.”

     “Could I? How about I go one step further? I think your real name is actually Jacques Leventreur. Sebastian Moran is the alias. Am I right?”

     He squinted with a hard smile but didn’t immediately respond.

     “Well, am I right?” She prodded.

     “Yes, Molly. You are correct. I hope that will console you,” he stood. “Shall we?”

     She didn’t move from her seat. He grabbed her arm and pulled her from the chair.

     “Don’t resist. You are about to go to your death, mouse. Try to have a little dignity.”

          *   *   *

       “I’m going down there,” Sherlock bit out.

     Mycroft slammed his hand down on the bench. “No, you aren’t, not yet. Let them put her in the cooler first. It’ll be the safest place for her when the team goes in. These men are all armed, Sherlock. They are cornered. They will likely start shooting.”

     Sherlock vibrated from head to toe as he watched Molly being led towards the back room of the morgue on a surveillance screen. She looked small and vulnerable, yet so very strong. Her little chin was raised as she walked and her shoulders squared.

     He had never loved anyone so much in his life as he loved Molly then. Everything best about her was summed up in her brave stance as she took a few breaths and faced the open door of one of the body coolers. He watched her fists ball and then her slap away hands that tried to assist her up onto the metal table.

     His guts twisted as she was pushed into the yawning black cavity and the door was slammed shut. He made a mental note. She had been put into cooler thirteen. He turned to rush out of the operating bay but Mycroft held out his hand.

     “Wait! Sherlock, they need to clear out of the cooler area first.”

     Then, once the three men had stepped out of the morgue and could be seen back in the main lab, Mycroft gave the order to commence the apprehension of them. Sherlock was out the door of the operating bay in a tick. As he flew into the stairwell and down towards the lab, he heard the loud percussion of something going off, most likely a flash bomb to disorientate the three targets. In seconds, he burst through the stairwell doors as several loud bangs and shouting voices issued from the lab. Then, things seem to quiet for a moment. He slowed his steps as he approached the lab entry.

     When he pushed open the door, he let out a long breath. Leem, outfitted in tactical gear, had his knee on the back of Sebastian Moran’s head. Fil and a half dozen other men in black commando garb hovered over two men who appeared to be mortally wounded on the floor. He watched as Fil leaned down and checked the pulse of one man, then the other.

     He looked up and nodded.

     “Oh, hey there, Mr. Holmes. These gits ‘re both dead,” he turned his gun around and offered it to him, “but you can plug ‘em both a couple more times if ya like. You know, jus' to be sure.”

     Sherlock waved his fingers. “No, I’ll take your word for it.”

     Then, he shook his head from the daze he found himself in and a fire lit beneath his feet. He ran as fast as he could to the morgue, almost falling as he rounded the corner, where he scanned quickly for cooler thirteen. He jerked at the handle but it didn’t give.

     “Molly! I’m here. I’ll get you out,” he called.

     He jerked again but the door wouldn’t open. Panic set in as he rattled it a couple times. He stopped when he thought he heard a muffled voice. He pressed his ear to the door.

     “You have to squeeze the latch,” she said faintly, “then pull the handle.”

     Tears erupted from his lids at the sound of her voice. He gulped in a breath, squeezed the handle first, which depressed a bar along the inside, and then pulled the latch. The door opened easily with just the lightest creak. He threw it back and whipped out the metal table.

     Molly laid there for a moment with her eyes closed and her arms folded over her chest like his own, morbid version of Snow White.

     “Molly?” He whispered.

     There were tracks down the sides of her cheeks. His hand flew to her forehead and he stroked it over her head.

     “Molly?” He repeated, his voice strangled.

     He watched her swallow. “I-I don’t want to be a ninny and cry. I’m trying to b-be brave.”

     She opened her luminescent brown eyes and his heart nearly exploded in his chest. He gathered her off the metal table then and clutched her against him tightly. As soon as he had her though, his knees buckled and he found himself on the floor with her across his lap with her clinging to him and sobbing into his neck.

     “Dear God, Molly, you are brave, so . . . s-so brave. You’re the bravest person I know.”


	38. The brilliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly, "Put that in your electronic cigarette and smoke it!"
> 
> *drops the mike and walks off stage*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, for everyone's sake, please avoid talking spoilers and speculation in the comments now that we're so close to the end! I would much appreciate this as some people read the comments to see if a story is getting good feedback. Thanks so much!

 

     Molly raised her head from Sherlock’s shoulder. She found herself looking into red rimmed and glistening, greenish-blue eyes. Sherlock’s eyes. They were soft at the edges as they searched hers. He leaned back.

     “I need to look at you,” he murmured.

     His fingers reached up and touched her lip gently where she knew it was cut and swollen. His brows came together and a silent curse formed in his lips.

     “Who did that?” He asked gruffly.

     Molly looked down. “The troll, Joseph.”

     His eyes narrowed. “He’s fortunate he’s dead then.”

     She took a breath. “Are they all dead?”

     He shook his head slowly. “No, I believe Mr. Moran is unharmed. Well, except for maybe a neck strain and possible abrasions on his face. Leem was practically grinding his mug into the lab floor last I saw.”

     She nodded and watched a lump move up and down his throat. His fingers curled a fistful of her shirt at the back.

     “Are you otherwise . . . unhurt?” He whispered.

     His eyes were a bit round. He looked anxious.

     She wagged her head up and down swiftly. “Yes, yes. Um, I spent most of my time in a loo, actually. I guess Mr. Fancypants was busy. I only met him an hour ago.”

     Molly watched as his shoulders heaved and relaxed. He looked down, bobbed his head a couple times and then returned his gaze to hers.

      “Dear God, Molly, what-”

     Shouting from the next room cut Sherlock off. Sebastian was crying bloody murder and making all sorts of threats. Molly pushed herself off Sherlock and stood up. He huffed and made a face as she reached a hand down for him.

     “You know this is all doing terrible damage to my ego, don’t you?” He muttered.

     She suppressed a smile. “I prefer to think of it as a bit of tempering. It’s what makes chocolate more palatable on the tongue, you know.”

     He took her hand as he climbed to his feet. She tugged at his arm.

     “Come on, I don’t want to miss this,” she said.

     He resisted and spun her back. His hands traveled up and rested on her shoulders lightly. A grimace flitted across his features.

     “Molly, Irene is here.”

     She pressed her lips together and crinkled her nose in distaste. “Hmm.”

     His lip twitched. “I have something else to tell you. I know this is terrible timing but it may come out and you should be prepared.”

      She looked askance before facing him again. “Does it have to do with you and her?”

      A wrinkle creased his forehead. He gave his head a jerk and blinked away a thought before his mouth opened for the briefest of moments. She could tell he was working something out. He stepped back, folded his hands together and placed them under his nose as he assessed her with constricted eyes. Finally, he seemed to come to a realization.

     “How long have you known?” He asked with a rasp.

     Molly rotated her eyes skyward as she thought about that. Should she lie? Should she plead ignorance? She let out a long breath through her nose. In the end, there was little point in fibbing anymore.

     “Mycroft told me about Auguste the same day I caught you with Irene.”

     His head lifted and went back as he inhaled quickly. Then his eyes skittered to and fro as he tried to make sense of it. His skin looked flushed in spots and waxen in others.

     “A-a-nd you did all this anyways?”

     She grabbed his dangling hand and tilted her head sideways. She felt one brow twist up while the other twisted down. She couldn’t believe how dumbfounded he was by that. Did he really think she’d react like some petulant child about something that had nothing to do with her or not want to help because her feelings were hurt?

     “Ah, yeah, but don’t worry about it, alright? Can we go?” She blinked a few times expectantly, her feet danced and she pulled at his arm again. “I mean, we can hash it out all later if you really feel the need to but I really, really want to be there when they read Sebastian his rights.”

     She tried pulling harder at him but in his shock, it was like trying to move a ten tonne monolith.

     “S-so y-y-you don’t care?” He said in a hollow tone.

     She raised her brows.

     “I wouldn’t say that,” she lifted her shoulders. “It just doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

     His lips poked out as his frown deepened.

     She finally let go and put her hands on her hips crossly. “Sherlock Holmes, of all the times for you to have trouble catching on. I love you. It’s pretty much unconditional at this point . . . except if I miss the whole finale of this thing, understand? Now, let’s go!”

          *   *   *

    “This is horseshit!” Sebastian screamed. “I will ruin you all!”

     Molly tugged a still stunned Sherlock with her as she found a vantage point next to Mycroft.

     “You can’t arrest me. You have nothing,” he continued to bluster.

     Mycroft looked over at her with a smug grin. “Molly, do you want the honors?”

     Her eyes felt too large for her skull. “Me?”

     “Molly Hooper, this was your plan. Please  . . . shut this idiot up.”

     Molly looked up at Sherlock. He urged her forwards with one brow raised in interest.

     “Go on,” he murmured. “I’m dying to hear this.”

     John, who'd been standing by watching the goings on, folded his arms and looked back and forth quickly between her and Sherlock. “Me too!”

     Molly stepped forward and looked around the room. There had to be at least two dozen people watching the drama unfold. She smiled shyly at Leem and Fil, who gave her thumbs up, and tugged at her shirt to straighten it out. She looked up at Sebastian with a wry grin.

     “Hi!”

     He spit. “Don’t gloat, mouse. You realize you’ve brought about the end of the western world? Do you know what happens if Sebastian Moran is arrested or killed? You have no idea . . .”

     She clapped her hands together and lifted her shoulders high. “See, that’s the thing. Sebastian Moran isn’t being arrested and charged because he’s not here. By your own admission, which we recorded, and the passport you entered England on, you are Jacques Leventreur and you’re not being arrested for any crime in England by the way, you’re being extradited to Colombia to face murder charges.”

     His mouth fell open. “What? What are you talking about?”

     Molly grabbed a nearby folder and flipped it open. She grinned at the contents.

     “Erm, Jacques Leventreur, that’s you, has been a very bad boy. He murdered a friend of his by poisoning him with arsenic. This happened about twenty years ago. He thought he got away with it.”

     “You can’t prove that!”

     Molly grabbed a nearby stool and scrunched her face. “Do you mind if I sit? It’s been a long day.”

      He glared at her.

     She twitched her brows. “Where was I? Oh, yes, see I can prove Mr. Ralston was poisoned and also that his young Colombian lover had nothing to do with it. Yes, Gerardo Zapata had access to arsenic but not the very specific chemical cocktail that Anthony was dosed with, understand? There were traces of copper, gold and other minerals that had a very particular chemical makeup in Mr. Ralston’s hair samples.”

      She winked at Leem. “Those specific proportions or ratios matched the profile of an arsenic mixture that is produced as a byproduct from a copper smelter in British Columbia, in Canada. Not coincidentally, you used to work at that copper smelter, Mr. Leventreur.”

     Mycroft stepped forward then. “It’s all very ingenious what Dr. Hooper has done. Not only did she trace the origin of the poison you used and connected it to you, she established a timeline that showed Mr. Ralston was dosed weeks before while he was still in Canada. Now, you two were partners of a sorts back then. In fact, LKH Ventures Ltd. is still registered in your name, is it not? So, it wasn’t hard to establish a connection between you two as well as opportunity on your part.”

     Sebastian (Jacques?) barked a laugh. “Is that it? Some hair analysis and a business connection?”

     Mycroft’s lip turned up at the corner and he shrugged. “Well, it was enough for the Colombian authorities.”

     Sebastian scoffed. “It’ll never stick!”

     A female’s cackling interrupted them at that point. Molly looked over to where Irene, in handcuffs, leaned against a wall and chortled in amusement.

     “It doesn’t have to, Sebastian, you fool!” She said between laughs. “They only need to _expose_ you!”

     Molly turned back to Sebastian. “Erm, well, as much as I’m disinclined to agree with her, she’s correct. This is going to be kind of a big deal. You’re a Canadian, being extradited from England to Colombia for a crime that took place decades ago. It’s got all the makings of a story that’s going to resonate around the world, especially when we feed the papers tales of a treasure stash, a deliberate fireworks factory explosion that resulted in a death and a respected physician killed in a mysterious mugging. Ooh, ooh, and Sherlock, the _‘Hat Detective’_ is going to take credit for sorting it all out. It doesn’t mattered if you get off. You’ll be imprisoned by your fame.”

     Sherlock cleared his throat to her side. When she looked at him, his arms were folded behind his back and both brows were hiked.

     “You’ll certainly never be able to work as a spy again,” he added. “Although, we’ll see about that credit part, Dr. Hooper.”

     Molly smirked at him. “John has to write it up. No one reads my blog.”

     “I do."

     She smiled. She could kiss him for that. Irene erupted again at their back. Her laughs echoed in the bay.

     “Well, done, Molly Hooper. You’ve saved us all!”

     Sebastian jerked at his restraints. “Shut up, you dumb witch!”

     Mycroft sighed. “Mm, well, I’ve had enough. Let’s get him over to the Colombian Consulate, shall we?”

     Sebastian spit. “Oh, you all think you’re so clever, don’t you? Well, revel in it while you can. I’m not impressed. You’re an incompetent wad of morons and all so easily fooled.”

     He turned his sights on Irene. “Isn’t that right, Irene? They’re clueless. I’m not afraid of them. I mean, these are the dipshits who think James Moriarty is dead and gone, but he’s not, is he? You've been harboring him.”


	39. The redirection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you go back and pick up all the breadcrumbs, this isn't such a surprise. Please tell me if I got you!

 

     Molly looked quickly to Irene. Her face lost all of its color. Then Molly glanced to the men at her left. The expressions on Sherlock, Mycroft and John’s faces were the same, a mixture of shock and disbelief. She knew her own face must look a fright. It couldn’t be true, could it?

     Molly covered her mouth. What if it was true and Moriarty had Auguste?

     “What is he talking about?” Sherlock ground out.

     Sebastian laughed. “Come on, Irene. Tell them! Tell them he yet lives.”

     Irene shook her head. “N-no, he’s lying!”

    Sebastian’s lips tugged and then a smile spread across his face like an oil slick. “Oh, don’t think you’re coming out of this unscathed, you conniving bitch!”

     Sherlock stomped over to Irene, hauled her forwards by her handcuffs and yanked her into the center of the room.

     “So help me if what he’s saying is true, I am done with you. I am done protecting you from this moment forwards no matter what you think you hold over my head. I don’t care how long it takes, I will find Auguste while you rot your days away Bronzefield Prison in solitary confinement. Mycroft, can you ensure her head is shaved weekly?”

     Mycroft nodded and blinked slowly. “Gladly.”

     “You won’t find Auguste,” Irene spit out.

     Sherlock pointed to Sebastian without looking at him. “I am willing to make a deal with the devil right now to find his whereabouts. By this time tomorrow, he’ll be under my protection and you will never, _never_ see him again.”

     “Nooo!” She wailed.

     Sebastian laughed maniacally.

     “Get her out of my sight, Mycroft, or I cannot be held responsible for my actions,” Sherlock seethed.

     Mycroft signalled to a pair of agents and they stepped forward. They began to haul Irene away but she fought wildly.

     “No, you cannot take him from me!” She screamed. “He’s mine! He’s mine!”

      “Get. Her. Out. Of. Here!”

     Molly watched as Irene burst into tears. She continued to struggle until they reached the door to the room.

     “You cannot have him,” she sobbed and looked around wildly.

     Molly focused in on her face as she seemed desperate to come to grips with something. Then, she looked up with a strange expression. It was defeat. Acceptance. Like she had exhausted every corner of her mind and reached no alternative.

     “He . . . he . . . he’s not yours, Sherlock Holmes. Do you hear me?” Irene cried. “You can’t have him because . . . because you’re not his father.”

     The room stilled and went silent at that moment. Molly shook her head. There wasn’t a closed mouth on any spectator present. She looked quickly to Sherlock as he jerked his head up and blinked rapidly.

     Sebastian Moran renewed his laughter. “Whoop! Oooooh!”

     Sherlock raised a shaking hand to his face and covered his mouth a moment. He looked at Mycroft with disbelief before dropping his hand again.

     “This is another one of your tricks,” he said in a low tone. “You’re lying . . .”

     Mycroft gestured for the agents to bring her forwards once more. Irene raised her shackled hands to her face and wiped away tears. She laughed sadly.

     “No, making you believe Auguste was yours was a trick. I never thought for a second it would work but you handed it to me on a silver platter when you got into the drugs that night.”

     “I-I don’t believe y-you,” he said quietly and then shouted. “I don’t believe you! There was a DNA test. We verified it here.”

     Molly caught some movement out of the corner of her eye and saw Mycroft’s head go back. His lips parted and right then, by the look on his face, she knew he had figured something out.

     Sherlock jammed both hands through his hair. “You cannot fake a DNA test!”

     Irene sucked in her lip. Her shoulders jerked as she suppressed a laugh and then a giggle escaped her lips. She threw back her head.

     “Geraldine,” Mycroft muttered. “She got to Geraldine, our most trusted technician. Christ!”

     Sherlock’s head snapped sideways as he glared at his brother. “What?”

     “She had Geraldine tamper with the results.”

     “What how? HOW!?”

     All eyes were on Irene as she appeared to inspect her nails. She flicked her fingers nonchalantly and then lifted her shoulders ever so slightly.

     “I know what she likes.”

     There was such a vacuum of sound in the room, Molly could almost hear phantom echoes in her ears. Sherlock took a step back, caught himself as his knee buckled and then looked at Molly with a stunned expression. She, along with John, leapt to his side. He turned his gaze back to Irene.

     “B-but he looked like me. He’s intelligent like me . . .”

     Sebastian’s hissing laugh disturbed the quiet.

     Irene rolled her eyes.

     “Oh, for God’s sake. I was already pregnant, you fool, not to mention the fact that we didn’t even have sex that night because you couldn’t perform and kept blubbering about your beloved pathologist. You remain, or should I say, _remained?_ . . .” she said caustically, her eyes glanced to Molly with deliberation. “ . . . a virgin.”

     Molly sputtered a laugh. “Oh, my God! He was no virgin when I . . .”

     She clapped her mouth shut. Heat burned her cheeks. She fanned herself as she looked at Sherlock. His eyes skittered away guiltily. No! There was no way on this planet he had been a virgin the first time they had sex. It was just not possible.

     “Wh-why?” Sherlock roared as he came to life again. “Why!?”

     Irene’s eyes flashed. “I needed protection! Who better to take care of my son and I than Sherlock Holmes and by extension, the British Government? I did what I had to do.”

     “Whose is he? Who is the father?” Sherlock shouted.

     Once more, laughing drifted from Sebastian’s direction. “I told you he lived on. I told you . . .”

     John cut in then. “Moriarty. Bloody hell! James Moriarty is, or was, the father.”

     Irene smirked. “Thanks for getting him to kill himself and dismantling his network, by the way. I’m sorry you labored under false pretenses but you didn’t really lose all that much in the end, did you? It’s not like you ever visited Auguste or became truly attached. That made it easier to perpetuate the lie too, you know, because it became really obvious you weren’t his father pretty early on and all you would have needed to do was take one good look to see it. Anyways, it was entertaining while it lasted, mm? You gained a son for a while. I mean, wasn’t that fun? ”

     Molly’s hand snapped open involuntarily as her blood boiled. She pushed past Sherlock and John and Mycroft, walked up to Irene, wound up and slapped her face so hard, it whipped sideways. The echo of its crack bounced off the walls. Irene stretched her jaw and looked up with a half-smile.

     “Oh, Molly, what a wallop. That turned me on a little.”

     That’s when Molly lost her shit. With a cry, she grabbed a handful of Irene’s hair, threw her to the floor and dove on top of her with fists flailing as she swore at her over and over. She only managed to get a couple strikes in before strong hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her up from the floor kicking and punching. She wanted to kill her. She probably would have if given the chance. What that woman had done to Sherlock was unforgivable.

     “Molly!” Sherlock dragged her backwards. “Molly, stop!”

     Molly panted as wriggled in his arms. “Aarg! Let me go.”

     Sherlock’s head dipped next to hers as he spoke in her ear and clutched her back against his chest.

     “I won’t let you do this,” he whispered.

     “Why?” She cried.

     “Because you’ll hate yourself tomorrow and I don’t want that woman causing you anymore grief.”

     Tears spilled out of her eyes. “I hate her so much. How could she do that to you?”

     “Don’t hate her, Molly. She’s not worth it.”

     Molly turned in his arms and hugged him around the neck. She didn’t care who saw or whether it was inappropriate. She just needed to comfort him, and herself as well.

     “You should hate her,” Molly whispered.

     “Strangely, I don’t right now. All I feel is relief,” he buried his face in her neck and took a deep breath. “She just set me free. I never have to think about her again.”


	40. The bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little levity, smut (they had to at least once more).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm holding out but some of you know, there's something that needs to be done :)

 

     “Is it over then?”

     Molly looked anxiously up at Mary. “Well, I don’t know if I can say that. Things never really seem to be over in this crowd.”

     “Isn’t that the truth,” Mrs. Hudson seconded.

     Molly glanced to Sherlock who fiddled with his violin.

     “Rest assured, Mary,” he mumbled. “Sebastian Moran won’t be causing you any more problems. We’ve clipped his wings. Whether he’s found guilty of this or something else, the Colombian Authorities will ensure he’s locked up indefinitely and there’s nothing he can do about it. Unlike Britain or the US, he’s got no leverage over the Colombian Government. I wish we could have killed him for you but no one wanted to risk his death setting off some sort of domino of revelations that could do serious damage. He knows now that his secrets are the only thing keeping him alive so he won’t reveal them. He’s effectively neutered. So, hopefully what we did is to your satisfaction.”

     Mary laughed and then wiped a hand over her mouth. “We?”

     Sherlock huffed out a breath and tweaked a string without looking up. “When I say, ‘we’, I of course mean Molly. Forgive me I did not mean to steal her thunder but she has taken residence up in here.”

     His fingers tapped his head as he muttered. Mary suppressed a smile as she gazed at Molly with brows hiked.

     “Have you?” She asked.

     Molly smiled shyly in return. “Apparently. I don’t think he’s entirely keen on it but he’s adjusting.”

     Mary sat back. A grin spread across her face. Then, her eyes misted and she gulped a sob.

     “Oh, Mary!” Molly said quickly. “What’s wrong?”

     She shook her head. “Nothing, nothing! I am so grateful. It’s overwhelming. He w-was the last piece. He could have been my undoing but I don’t have to worry about him anymore, or my past. I can just be, you know. I can relax on the couch with my husband and baby and not wonder if there’s someone lurking and waiting to ruin it all. I don’t think I can ever repay you, Molly, and you too, Sherlock.”

     He made a sound. “Hmph, what did I do?”

     John wandered into the room at that moment with Eliza resting in his arms. He beamed at them.

     “I changed her. I hope you don’t mind but I threw the nappy out in the trash in the kitchen.”

     “I wouldn’t worry about that, dear,” Mrs. Hudson piped up from where she’d been quietly listening to the conversation. “There are a lot fowler things in the fridge.”

     John smiled tightly. “Ah, yes, of course.”

     Greg Lestrade appeared from the bathroom at that moment. “Did I miss anything?”

     Sherlock made another exasperated noise. “There are far too many people here! Whose idea was this anyways?”

     John blinked a couple of times. “Well, yours, I think.”

     “No,” he replied slowly as he plucked a string, “that doesn’t sound like something I’d suggest. You must be mistaken.”

     John laughed and sat down on the couch next to Mary. Greg took a seat on the arm rest. Molly bit back a grin as she surveyed the scene. For so many years, she’d felt like an extra at their gatherings. Now she felt as if she belonged to this strange knit of a family.

     “And what’s happened to Irene then?” Mary asked.

     Molly looked to Sherlock. “He can answer that better than myself, I think.”

     “Mycroft has arranged for her to be thrown into a wood chipper” he mumbled.

     Mrs. Hudson gasped. Mary snorted as she laughed. Molly reached over and gave him a little smack on the knee.

     “Honestly, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson said ruefully. “Your sense of humor is appalling.”   

      He smirked. “What? I believe there are quite a few people who would love to see that. Molly?”

     She wrinkled her nose at him. “No! I am fine with the whole prison and shaving her head thing.”

     Molly grinned as even Sherlock seemed to hold back a laugh.

     “And what of the boy, Auguste?” Mary asked.

     Sherlock’s face looked a bit sad then. Molly pursed her lips. It wasn’t so easy, she figured, to just switch gears and stop caring.

     “I will continue to look for him, if only to ensure he is receiving proper care,” he said quietly. “I think that Irene has probably placed him with decent people because I believe she does love him, in her own way. Once I find him, I'll keep tabs. He is the product of two deeply mentally disturbed individuals after all. Should be very interesting to see how he develops.”

     The room was silent for a moment. Molly got up and then scooted her chair closer to Sherlock’s. She patted his hand. She wished they were alone then. She would hold him and try to make that slightly forlorn look go away. Finally, after what seemed an age, John made a sound and broke the silence.

     “Alright, I have to ask because . . . um, well, ahem! Irene said you were a virgin, Sherlock. I mean, everyone jokes about that but it can’t be true, right?” John asked.

     Mrs. Hudson choked on a sip of tea. “Really, John, what a question.”

     Molly sputtered a laugh. “No, it’s not even remotely true. Sherlock was definitely not a virgin . . . “

     She covered her mouth as her face flamed. She looked at Sherlock as he busied himself once more with his violin. He seemed really, really interested in the tension on the strings. He lifted his nose as he looked down the neck of his instrument.

     Molly found her voice again. “You were not a virgin! NOT! Oh, my God, there’s no way you could . . . do what you did . . . oh, lord!”

     His head shot up and he looked around. “Why?”

     His eyes skipped back and forth between Greg and John before he grazed her, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson with his gaze.

    “No, seriously, what is the big deal?” He asked.

     Molly looked at him between her fingers. She was so embarrassed to have this discussion in front of people but she was too surprised and confused to let it drop.

     She groaned. “Sherlock . . . y-you’re too damn good at it to be a virgin.”

     His brows twitched up and she saw him hold back a smirk. “Oh?”

     He then looked with lips parted in confusion as he appeared to have thought about something.

      “I don’t understand. Is it supposed to be difficult?” His eyes constricted. “Do other men find it hard to . . . _please?_ . . . women?”

     Mary absolutely burst and pealed a laugh then. Mrs. Hudson set her tea down and folded her arms over her stomach as she doubled over in hysterics. Both John and Greg shook their heads.

     “Of course, of course, he’d just be able to . . . pfft!” John spit.

     “Hmph,” Greg said with brows raised. “Uh, huh. I’m going to go jump off a bridge now.”

     Sherlock shrugged and then met eyes with Molly. She shook her head and leaned closer.

     “Was I?” She asked under her breath.

     He lifted his chin. “Were you what?”

     She rolled her eyes and whispered in as quiet a tone as possible. “Was I your first?”

     He squinted his eyes a second and then his nose twitched at one side as his lip lifted.

     “Yes, apparently, and I should have known I hadn't actually slept with Irene but I couldn't remember the next morning and I was , ahem, naked. The drugs, you see, they're a bit not good that way,” he set his violin aside and folded his hands together. “Is that a problem?”

     Molly couldn’t speak. The man was closer to forty than fourteen and he’d waited his entire life . . . for her.  She launched herself off her chair, into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck before kissing him full on the lips. She wasn’t going to wait for later to show him how much she loved him. She didn’t care who saw.

    Neither did he care, apparently, as his hand cupped the back of her neck quickly and he kissed her back.

     “Oh, God!” No one wants to see that!” John grumbled.

     Mary laughed again. “Speak for yourself!”

     Mrs. Hudson squealed. “Oh, dear!”

     “Well, I think it’s time to take my leave,” Greg interjected.

     “I think it’s all time we took our leave,” Mrs. Hudson said with a sigh.

     Ten minutes later, after a lot of hurried hustling, everyone else had left Baker Street except for Molly.

     “What is it?” Sherlock huffed from his chair.

     She approached him shyly. She suddenly felt awkward again in his presence. He reached out a hand and pulled her down to his lap again so that she sat sideways across him. He kissed her gently on the lips and then looked at her critically.

     “Whaaat?” He growled.

     She tucked her lips in briefly. “Um, well, Sherlock, it doesn’t make sense . . . you never having sex . . .”

     He sighed. “Why?”

     She felt her face warm. “Erm, I mean, you know things. Crap, this is embarrassing. Like, you seemed very comfortable . . .”

     He frowned. “It was you. Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?”

     She smiled and looked down. “Ah, go on.”

     He cleared his throat. “Just because I never had . . . intercourse . . . before, doesn’t mean I haven’t done pretty much everything else. It would have been quite difficult to conduct some of my undercover work if I didn’t have some practical experience. However, I never wanted to do that particular act with just anyone. I told you that I have trouble separating things up here,” he pointed at his head. “I didn’t want a squatter up there.”

     “But, you had condoms that first night we were together!”

     He shrugged. “They were for an experiment. See, there was this one murder I investigated that involved a prostitute with very particular inclinations. Didn't you read about it? It was on John's blog . . .”

     She held up her hands. “I don’t need to hear the specifics.”

     His lips turned down. “It’s very interesting actually.”

     She shook her head. “No, really, I’m good. I just wish I would have known so that it could have been more special for you.”

     “It was special, Molly,” he looked down a moment. “You never answered my question, though. Does it bother you that you were my first?”

     She puffed a breath of indignation. “I didn’t answer? I kissed you in front of almost everyone we know! Heck no, Sherlock Holmes. I’m bloody thrilled. It means you’re mine, only mine.”

     He licked his lips as he looked over her face. She felt a tingle shoot through her tummy as the light in his eyes changed. He shifted in the chair and she felt something awake beneath her thigh.

     “Do you want to claim me then?” He asked huskily.

     Her hands gripped either side of his face. “Mm, hmm, God yes! Right here, on your chair, if you please.”

     He heaved in a breath. She could almost see his pulse quicken in his throat.

     “That would be unwise,” he said softly. “This is where I do my best thinking.”

     Molly wriggled on his lap and then kissed his eyebrow, temple and brushed her lips down to peck at the corner of his lips. “We could do it on John’s chair.”

     “No,” he protested.

     “The couch then?”

     “Even worse! I’ll never be able to concentrate when a client visits.”

     “Tsk, tsk. We’re running out of options then.”

     She kissed him more vigorously this time and threaded her fingers through his hair. He made a low sound in his throat and devoured her lips. She could feel him grow tighter underneath her seat and knew that she’d get her way.

     “Think of it this way,” she breathed against his lips. “Whenever a client bores you while you’re sitting in this chair, you can reminisce about what we did in it.”

     He gripped her tightly about her waist. “Molly, you are incorrigible.”

     “I 'm getting better at it anyways.”

     His lips found hers again, firm yet supple perfection melting against her own. He licked along her bottom lip and then bit it gently with his teeth. Then, with a deep rumble from his chest as she tightened her fingers in his curls, he kissed her more deeply. His hands jerked her blouse from her pants and slid underneath to her heated flesh. His fingers danced up her spine to where her bra held together and flicked open the clasp. Then, the fingers of one hand found their way under her bra and stroked her nipple before squeezing it gently between two knuckles and tugging on it.

     She gasped on his mouth. God, he knew exactly what to do to turn her inside out! Her inner walls clenched and she felt a delicious sensation flush between her thighs. He did the same with her other breast before she leaned her forehead against him and panted.

     “Oh, God, you’re only going to get better at this, aren’t you?”

     He laughed. “Every time I pick up the violin, my playing improves. Your body isn’t much different.”

     He ran a hand down between her breasts. “All one needs to do is handle it nimbly.”

     He kissed her again and began undoing the front buttons of her shirt. “Then, get it vibrating at the right frequency.”

     He pushed it off her shoulders, teased her bra off and dropped it to the floor. His eyes darkened as he gazed down at her breasts. He leaned forward with her on his lap and repositioned himself so that he could dip his head. His tongue licked over one nipple and she bit back a cry.

    “Mm, and then it makes the perfect sound.”

     She held fast to him as he drew a nipple fully into his warm, wet mouth. This time, her lips parted and she practically sobbed at the decadent shivers that coursed through her body and made her sex pulse. She closed her eyes and savored the velvety feel of his tongue as it lapped around her nipple. He moved to the other breast and did the same, slow tease. When he lifted his head to look at her again, she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt.

     “You need to be naked!”

     A grin tugged the corner of his lips. “You’re so impatient. Every time, always.”

     “Don’t make fun!”

     She stood up quickly and shuffled out of her pants and knickers. He rose more leisurely and popped his buttons open one by one before flicking at each of his cuffs. As soon as he lost his pants and shorts, she pushed him back on the chair into a sitting position. She was about to climb on top of him when he grabbed her by the hips, turned her around and pulled her down to sit with her back to his chest. His rigid member strained against her bum.

    “I think I’d like to take you this way,” he murmured in her ear, his breaths hot in her hair. “With you sitting on my cock.”

     Her mouth fell open at how he said cock. She’s never heard him ever utter anything like that. It made her ridiculously wet. He ground his hips upwards then and ran his hands up the front of her body to cover her breasts. She turned her head to kiss him and wiggled her bum over his shaft.

     He moaned. “Ah, huh. You. Slay. Me, Molly.”

     He urged her upwards then and she scooted up. She felt his large head nudge between her cheeks and press against her opening. He rubbed it against her wet entrance and then pushed inside part way. As always, he was massive and she had a little moment of bewilderment contemplating how he would fit all the way. Her body clamped on him greedily, making his penetration proceed in bursts instead of one smooth motion as she settled down onto him. Finally, he pressed deep and hard up into her womb as his hand spread out over her belly button. Her bum cheeks rested up against his stomach and she felt his coarse hairs tickle her backside.

     He leaned forward and lifted his hips. He kissed her shoulder.

     “If I had known it would feel this good,” he mumbled against her collar. “I would have turned you over a chair long ago.”

     “Was it worth the wait though?” She asked between breaths.

     “Most definitely.”

     His hands fell too her hips then and he thrust upwards. She inhaled sharply as he seated even farther into her body. Then, she leaned back and began rocking her hips in tune with his strokes. His fingers found their way between her legs and pushed on her clit. She dropped her head back as she almost cursed aloud from the pleasure. On one side of her clit, she felt his finger pressing down, on the other side, his cock as he thrust in and out. The pressure was almost too intense. Over and over, her nerves were struck as if he were trying to strike a match.

     Her insides gathered in a familiar tension then as he pumped her and lifted her with each movement. Every once in awhile she'd push off the floor with her toes so he'd withdraw out of her a bit and then drop back down him like she was riding a pole. Her inner walls sucked at his rod with each drive back into her body. She was on fire. She burned. She felt as if she'd be turned to ashes if it went on much longer.

     She lost herself in it. The heat and the slickness of their bodies. The jolt of her body each time he thrust upwards. The feel of his fingers, wet with her excitement and slipping against her cleft as he played her. She felt incredibly achy and needy and in all too short a time, there was no stopping the tsunami of her orgasm as it overwhelmed her. One last, raw, ridged slide of his shaft into her body and she came like a firecracker. A sharp pulse wracked her body and in a secondary explosion, her sex spasmed again. Sherlock gripped her stomach, rode that wave and released seconds later with a shuddering breath. His shaft strained and then rippled within her body.

     She collapsed back against him as he breathed noisily in her ear and just laid there for a while. He was hers! Hers! She owned this part of him and the knowledge made her feel devilish.

     “Hmm, what?” He asked languidly when he heard her laugh softly.

     She smiled at the ceiling. “Ah, nothing. I’m just very pleased with myself.”

     He hugged his arms around her and kissed her neck. “I think I’ve created a monster.”

     “Yes, and one with quite the appetite, Sherlock Holmes. In fact, I think I’m going to be a bit of a beast and breathe fire all over anyone who even looks at you.”

     He laughed. “Hmph.”

     “What?” She murmured. “What are you thinking about?”

     “Just something Mycroft said once. The warning seems apt in hindsight, Molly Hooper, my fearsome protector.”

     “What did he say?”

     He snuggled closer. “‘Here be dragons’.”


	41. The curtain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion (sort of) to our tale. I am so humbled and grateful to all of you for reading this story. It's been a wild ride and for as many twists as I threw at you, I threw that many out in the editing process. When I started this, I had no idea why Mary was receiving those pearls, I wasn't sure who had put Moriarty's face on the tele and I didn't know Molly and Sherlock were going to travel around the world together. Leem and Fil were only meant to be in one or two chapters, Auguste didn't exist, and Molly wasn't going to be the hero. So, how did we end up here? The characters took me to these places, that's how freakin' ingenious Conan and Moffat and Gatiss are! They have made such wonderfully, complex, real people (especially Molly) who I wish actually existed (even the baddies). I'm no genius, I am stealing from geniuses here and I feel privileged to bask in their reflective glory. Again, thanks to all of you! From the bottom of my heart, thank-you. Thank-you and thank-you again. Three months, 80,000 words. This one beat me up, but it feels like a great workout. I'm sore but damn, I feel better for it! Thanks again for being my bootcamp Sargent, all. Find me on Tumblr as mae-jones if you want to keep in touch.

 

     “You see, Molly was the one who first made the connection-”

     “You’re calling her Molly now, are you?” Sherlock asked with raised brow.

     Mycroft smoothed his hands over his vest. “Should I call her by something else? Sister, perhaps?”

     Sherlock’s eyes constricted. “Don’t think to irritate me, Mycroft. I still have to resist driving a fist into your face every time I see you.”

     His lips turned down. “Pfft, you should be groveling at my feet for what I did.”

     Sherlock lurched forward in his seat. “You allowed my girlfriend to be kidnapped and nearly killed. You drugged me so that I was incapable of providing her with protection during that time and you told her a secret about me that wasn’t yours to divulge. No, I won’t be groveling. You’re lucky you’re not doing so right now.”

     Mycroft raised his chin and sighed. “Are you still so angry about all that? I’ve never had an operation turn out so successfully. Molly really should be in intelligence.”

     “She’s fine where she is,” Sherlock grumbled.

     “What? Being one of your sidekicks? She’s proven herself a lot more resourceful than that. We couldn’t have put this all together without her.”

     “Really?”

     “Really. Molly Hooper was the beginning and the end of this thing. She determined Ralston’s death was a murder. She identified a person of interest in Mr. Leventreur. She made the connection that he could be the killer and that he was also Sebastian Moran.”

     Sherlock pressed his fingers together. “How?”

     “Perspective, dear brother. Molly Hooper understands the humanity in these sorts of things where sometimes you just see the crime. Now, that doesn’t mean your approach is inferior, it actually works ninety five percent of the time-”

     “Ninety nine,” he muttered, “point nine!”

     Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Whatever makes you feel better, brother mine. Anyways, she asked the right people the right questions. For example, Dr. Rojas and then, there was the information her officer friend provided about Jacques Leventreur. Constable Richards’ father actually works for CSIS, the Canadian intelligence agency, and they were able to track his passport and find out he was here. Molly was the one who suggested that he and Moran were probably the same person because of the connection to Mary.”

     Sherlock scratched his brow. “So, he killed Mary’s father to get a hold of his supposed jewel stash but must been unsuccessful. He created a new identity, started working for the CIA and decided to try again with better tools at his disposal.  He then ingratiated himself into Mary’s life by recruiting her but was grievously injured on a job and she disappeared before he found what he was after. I wonder how he tracked down Mary again after all these years.”

     Mycroft looked up as if searching for the answer. “Magnussen comes to mind. He knew about Mary, but it’s almost a pointless exercise to try to disseminate the wheres and hows and whens of these sort of things. Adler, Moriarty, Moran, Magnussen . . . they seem to find one another like volatile ions in a solution. The best we can do is try to neutralize them and take them out of circulation.”

     “Twenty years,” Sherlock murmured. “Twenty years this man spent trying to find a treasure that doesn’t exist, according to Mary. Are we sure about that?”

     Mycroft smiled. “If only there was someone we knew who could investigate such a mystery.”

     Sherlock huffed. “Don’t be cute. You’re too old for it.”

     “Says who?”

     Sherlock fell silent a moment as he tapped his fingers on the arms of his chair. “I can’t believe I didn’t see more of this. I had suspicions but then seemed to get distracted. I’ve been bloody blind when it comes to Molly.”

     Mycroft nodded. “Mm, I agree.”

     Sherlock’s lip twitched. “And she came up with the whole ‘acting as bait’ plan? That wasn’t your idea?”

     Mycroft pursed his lips a tick. “Well, that part was more collaborative . . .”

     “Uh, huh.”

     “But unnecessary, according to Irene, because Moran was going to make his move on Molly anyways; he feared what she had uncovered. The first attempt on Molly’s life came after she started researching Arsenic poisoning online. He never tried to kill her because you were investigating Mary’s case. In fact, he had hoped that he could get you, the great hat detective, to uncover the whereabouts of the stash for him.”

     Sherlock sighed. “Yes, it’s all very clear now. The message in the pearls he sent Mary were as much for me as they were for her. He was baiting us, first with the rare pearls, something her father would have collected. Then he sent a single black and white pearl to represent a bride and groom. Finally, there was the faux pearl string, Mary probably wore something similar when they married. I mean, I could see it, but I couldn’t. There were too many distractions.”

     Mycroft sat forward and folded his hands together on his lap. “And is this how it’s going to be with Molly as your girlfriend? Can you afford such distractions?”

     Sherlock took a deep breath to steady himself. “No, you’re right. Molly cannot continue to be my girlfriend. It’s not fair to any of us to pretend. We can't just continue on as such.”

               *   *   *

     Molly picked up the last fragment of skull from the shoebox with her tweezers, applied a bit of adhesive and returned it to its original location at the top of the eye socket. It had taken her hours to piece together Sherlock’s skull but it was well worth it. There were a few places where chips were apparent because they had been lost, and a missing front tooth that they hadn’t found, but the result was something with a bit more character. The perfect representation of their relationship, really.

     She centered the skull on the lab bench and admired her work. She hoped Sherlock would appreciate this surprise, especially since he seemed to have pulled back from her the last couple days after weeks of being his proper girlfriend. He was hiding something, he seemed nervous and his eyes wandered away at times. She didn’t know what to make of it except that it reminded her of times in the past when he had gone cold.  

     She inhaled. Her hands trembled. She hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts now that the dust had settled. Sure, it was easy to get caught up in things when emotions were running high, but what then? Was he still enamored with her without all the drama? He hadn’t told her he loved her even once since Moran’s arrest. Maybe he was just too scared to break it off with her.

     Molly’s heart twisted in her chest as she felt a prickling sensation in her eyes. She didn’t want to contemplate that. She wanted to enjoy what she had, as long as she had it. She swallowed and busied herself cleaning up.

     Then, the lights in the lab flickered and went out, plunging the entire room into a fathomless darkness. She blinked several times but she couldn’t make out a single shape in the blackness. Fear made her stomach turn over. There was something unnatural about this. Not a sliver of light crept in from any source.

     Then, to her left she heard a faint click and a buzzing noise. When she gazed towards the sound, she saw a dim, bluish UV light illuminate something on the lab bench. She squinted at the spectacle. Directly underneath the light was something that glowed bright and intensely blue like a miniature neon light. She moved towards it and saw that it was, in fact, several small points arranged in a circle that fluoresced. She reached towards it and palmed its cool, metallic weight. Almost in the same instant, the lab lights flared to life again.

     She blinked several times down at her hand. In the center of her palm was a ring with what looked like rectangular cut sapphires inset all the way around a wide, gold band. A bit of movement to her right made her nearly jump from her skin. She turned and to her utter disbelief, found Sherlock down on one knee.

     Her eyes were so large, the air in the lab made them sting.

     “Wh-what’s going on?” She whispered.

     He took her hand and drew her towards him.

     “Molly Hooper, you asked me for promises,” he murmured as he gazed up at her anxiously. “I came to make one.”

     Molly’s stomach flip-flopped. Tears burned her eyes. Was she imagining things? She felt unsteady on her feet.

     “O-oh, my God, Sherlock, are you serious?”

     He swallowed. “You understand that this goes against my better judgement-”

     She frowned even as she shook. “Dear, God, don’t go all Mr. Darcy and pooch this, Sherlock.”

     He raised a brow at her.

     “I don’t think I understand your reference but if you let me finish, this goes against my better judgement because I don’t deserve you nor will you be better off with me in your life. I however, ahem . . ." he choked up a second. "I cannot live without you. I am utterly dependent on your love and acceptance and your unwavering belief in me which is steadfast even though I have behaved deplorably too many times to count. I don’t think I will ever fully understand how you were able to see through the Irene mess and support me as you did.”

     Tears fell freely from Molly’s eyes. She clutched the ring against her chest.

     “Because I love you,” she sniffed, “and because I heard you.”

     His eyes had misted over by then as well. They shone with unshed tears. A wrinkle appeared between his brow.

     “Wh-what?”

     She gulped back a sob. “I heard you that morning in the hotel room in Bogota. I heard you tell me you loved me and that you were sorry for what was to come.”

     A breath caught in his chest. “Wh-why d-d-didn’t you tell me?”

     She smiled sadly down at him. “Because you weren’t ready and I wanted you to be ready, not to have any doubts.”

     A single tear blazed a path down his cheek. He looked down a moment before gazing up at her with wide eyes.

     “I don’t have any doubts, anymore, and the ones I had were never about you. I love you. I love you. I have always, _always_ loved you. I am sorry that I didn’t recognize it for what it was earlier. Please, w-will you do me the honor,” he inhaled a quivering breath, “of becoming my wife?”

     Molly opened her hand again and looked down at the beautiful ring. She started nodding so hard, her brain shook in her skull. Finally, she found her voice.

     “Y-yes, yes, Sherlock Holmes. I want to be your wife more than anything in the w-world.”

    She hiccuped and started bawling then as he took the ring from her hand. He stood up, shakily slipped the ring onto her left hand and embraced her before she could collapse. He kissed the top of her head and let out a long breath. They stood there holding one other for what seemed an age as Sherlock whispered promises such as he would never lie to her again, unless it was about her weight or her appearance. He would always protect her and keep her safe. He would love her until he died, and only her, and so on. She couldn't speak. It was a moment Molly wanted to remember forever so she just closed her eyes and savored his deep voice murmuring everything she ever wanted to hear. After a few minutes though, with her heart feeling as if it were going to burst, she held out her hand to look at the ring.

     “Do you like it?” Sherlock asked anxiously.

     She gulped back a sniffle. “It’s perfect. None of the stones stick up. I can wear it under my gloves.”

     “I was hoping you would appreciate that.”

     “I-I didn’t know sapphires glowed under UV light,” she remarked.

     He stroked a finger over the ring. He seemed to sigh in satisfaction.

     “Pfft, sapphires are a dime a dozen and much too common for you. These are benitoite. They are among the rarest stones in the world. Yet, still, they seem . . . insufficient.”

     “No, they’re perfect. The ring is perfect,” she disagreed. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”

     Sherlock gathered her hand against his chest. He leaned down and placed a tender kiss on her lips.

     “It pales in comparison to _you_.”


End file.
